The enemy... was one of those former ACPA trainers.
Karl knew the moment he locked eyes with the sniper.
That look—cold, surgical, relentless. The same as the one who'd nearly killed him before.
Do you all become like this once you slip into that power armor?
Is that what being an ACPA pilot does? Turns you into something else entirely? Like putting it on strips away your humanity?
Karl drew his pistol.
Time resumed its flow.
"Sniper. Stay low, Blanka."
"Sniper?!"
She reacted fast—following the pressure of his hand, curling into herself to reduce her profile.
"Who is it?" she asked sharply.
"Technically one of your own," Karl muttered. "But clearly trying to kill both of us. Guess you're not very popular."
He slipped away from her, taking cover behind a support column.
Four hundred meters. Not easy to land a clean shot from that far.
They were aiming at both of them—but Karl wanted to know who the real target was.
After the first shot, the Nekomata would be recalibrating. With an exosuit, that process was nearly instant. Barrel shift: minimal. Reacquisition: fast.
But they hadn't pulled the trigger again—yet.
Karl had studied the Nekomata thanks to Oliver. The thing could punch through steel and concrete, but it needed a moment to charge. Just over a second, give or take.
One second…
"Let's see who you really want dead."
"Don't fight it, Blanka."
She didn't understand what he meant—until the second shot came.
BOOM.
Four seconds since the first round.
Militech security outside was finally reacting—shouting, drawing weapons, opening the doors to storm the restaurant.
Too slow.
The sniper's second bullet got there first.
Karl's spine lit up. His instincts screamed.
And then—clarity.
He saw it. Read it.
Confirmed it.
A deep breath.
To Blanca, it was just wind brushing past.
By the time she processed it, Karl was holding her—arms wrapped around her in a full lift.
A princess carry, of all things.
In front of them, two trembling employees—a chef and a waiter—looked on in horror, frozen where they'd fled.
They were in the kitchen now.
Karl's voice came, calm and steady: "You were the target."
Then—he dropped her.
Blanka shifted midair, landing in a crouch with practiced ease. Not graceful, but not flat on her back either.
She turned sharply.
"You realized you're a test subject and now you're—"
Her words froze.
Her cyberoptics locked onto Karl's right arm.
Blood. Torn fabric. A deep gash at the elbow, flesh caved in, skin split open.
"You're hurt?"
All her indignation vanished.
"Was it because of me?"
"No," Karl said flatly. "It was my miscalculation."
No excuses. No blame. Just the truth.
"I mistimed it. He knew I'd anticipate the Nekomata's delay and held the trigger a beat longer. Smart move. Screwed up my read."
Blanka's eye flickered with data overlays as she scanned his injury.
"I've already contacted my people. Emergency teams are en route. NCPD too. The security detail is holding out—for now. You need to fall back with me. Get out of the line of fire."
"I'm not sitting this out."
Karl flexed his fingers.
"It's just synthetic skin. Bullet grazed it. This arm's been more metal than meat for a long time—you forgot?"
"But my team is out there as bait—"
"Exactly why I have to go."
He looked at her—steady and calm, but dead serious.
"I don't like watching people die for no reason."
"In this era, maybe that's stupid. But I still try to respect people. To respect life."
Blanka frowned. "But they're soldiers. It's their duty to protect me."
"And it's mine to protect you. I took the gig, didn't I?"
Karl gave a quick glance toward the door.
"No time left. That bastard's already triangulating our position."
He smiled.
"And besides… I owe him one."
He drew Midnight.
Then he turned to the two stunned employees still huddled nearby. Nodded. Gave them a warm, easy smile.
"The food was great. Thanks for the meal."
And then—he vanished.
One second he was there, the next he was gone—moving through frozen time like a phantom.
"Respect people... respect life..."
Blanka stood frozen, staring at the space he'd just left.
Are you insane?
This is Night City.
Where people stab you in the back for half a eurodollar.
Where someone pulls a gun because their coffee order was wrong.
Where life is cheap, and respect gets you killed.
And you talk about respect?
You must be mad.
It's absurd.
Ridiculous.
Stupid.
And yet…
She remembered that first mission with Karl—his casual smile when asking for payment.
She remembered the footage—him grinning like a maniac, fighting an ACPA solo, blade in hand, inches from death.
You're mad, Karl.
In this city, sacrifice is a calculation. Collateral damage is background noise. No one risks anything unless they have to.
So why would you?
Why care?
And yet—her thoughts drifted.
Back to her childhood.
To a line from a book she'd loved.
From her homeland.
From Don Quixote.
"When life itself seems utterly absurd, who's to say what counts as madness?
Maybe being too practical is madness.
Maybe giving up on dreams is madness.
Maybe seeing the world too clearly is madness.
But the greatest madness of all…
Is to accept the world as it is—and not dream of what it could be."
And in that moment, she wondered—
Accepting Night City as it is…
Isn't that the craziest thing of all?
.
.
.
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