Chapter 6 : We

“Right, so this is the meeting—”

Crash.

A glass bottle flies past, shattering against a tungsten wall without leaving a scratch.
Liquid—probably booze—and glass shards splash, making me reflexively close one eye and tilt my head back.

“Those f*cking—”

“Enough.”

Before the negotiation even starts, the air turns icy, the sharp sting of alcohol lingering like an aftertaste.
Well, this mood’s thoroughly screwed.

They’re the ones who disrespected us, no doubt, but being late is on us.
I brush off the booze and glass from my coat with a forced smile, grabbing one of my crew before he lunges.
If I don’t hold him back, he’s ready to rip the thrower’s head off.
That’d sink the whole negotiation.

“Don’t Dokkaebi know how to keep time? Or can’t you read a clock?”
“No respect for your counterparts. Not even ready to negotiate.”

Are they clueless or just ignoring us?
I can see it—each syllable they spit shortens their lifespan.
My crew’s eyes behind me grow feral.

“Haha, sorry about that. Traffic was a mess.”

If we walk away now, it’ll only mean more trouble.
This is about control of Santo Domingo—a deal big enough to spark a war.
I’m not worried about losing.
I don’t lose.
But the civilians caught in the crossfire? That’s what gnaws at me.

In this world, still so unreal to me, piling bodies just feel like a game.
If you ask if I’ve adapted too well, I’d say it’s better than drowning in guilt day after day.
But that’s not a good thing.
It means I’m drifting further from the normalcy in my head, becoming a psychopath—a sociopath, practically.
I don’t want to admit I’m broken or get used to killing and turn into a monster.

One thing I haven’t let go of:
Someday, somehow, I might escape this damn dystopia and return to my old life.
When that day comes, I don’t want to face my family covered in blood.

When I first opened my eyes here, I couldn’t think straight.
I thought it was just an exciting game, so I lived like a beast.
I pushed every limit, got drunk on power, ran wild, drowned in booze and drugs my body couldn’t even feel.

Maybe that’s why I turn away from the corpses and tragedies in front of me.
Maybe that’s why I’m desperate to find some shred of reality.
If I could just let go of this fragile hope, I might fully adapt to this dystopia and survive.

That’s why this negotiation has to happen.
Even if hope breaks, I need to build a world closer to the one in my head—a society I can believe is real.

“Of course, talking to nameless nobodies is a chore.”
“Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine.”

I don’t like this act—patting my crew with a fake smile.
It feels hypocritical, like a turtle tucking its head in fear, enough to make me gag.

They may not know our name, but they’re still a Night City gang.
Newbies or just too small to matter, it doesn’t change what they are: a gang.
Yet, without fame or deeds, they stand before Sixth Street, looking relaxed.
No discipline, just trash.
Unlike us, who rose to protect ourselves in a world of corrupt cops, they’re trash from the start.

“Go ahead and keep talking sh*t, but let’s get to the negotiation.”
“Trash like you, negotiate?”

Look at this guy, acting confident in front of us, who even the Animals laugh at.
It’s absurd—sums it up perfectly.

“You’ve got one choice: kneel and follow us.”
“Uh… that’s a bit tough. Wait, aren’t we here to decide what to do with Santo Domingo?”
“You seriously thought we’d negotiate with you?”

Arrogant, disrespectful bastards.
Us, who make the world more orderly, more livable—how dare they?

“Well, why’d you agree to the meeting then? Oh, that’s why they sent someone with that rank.”
“You f*cking—”
“Not fun? Fine, how about this: we pull out of Santo Domingo. In return, you go back to how things were. Look out for society, cut out the corruption. A time when people didn’t get shot in the streets for no reason, when they could laugh freely—back when Sixth Street was the vigilantes of old!”

Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite.
A lunatic pretending to be righteous.
Sacrifices are necessary for our sacred cause, but these disgusting creeps stand before us.

“Sure, we’ll do that. No clue when, though.”
“Oh… you’re agreeing?”
“How much blood flows till then, well…”

Can’t say for sure.

For the first time, his smile fades.
His sigh is almost comical.
Has he finally woken up to reality, or had his dream shattered?
Either way, his readiness to listen brings a creeping satisfaction.

“F*ck, we’re not getting anywhere.”
“Shut up and do as we say. You never had a choice—”

Their leader suddenly turns and walks out.
The talk’s not done—what an idiotic, brainless move.

BANG—

An empty head, a room filled with blood.

“Do it. Clean it up.”

Why’s everyone in this city such a f*cking moron?
No wonder I can’t feel attached to Night City.
They keep smashing the common sense I know, tearing down the society I remember, making it impossible to settle in and feel anything real.
It’s always thrilling, always new—blood-boilingly so. Damn it.
I can’t even tell the difference between the blood and alcohol splattered on my face—this cursed body.

“You bastard…!”

I don’t turn, but the chaotic noise and mechanical hum behind me say at least five guns are aimed at my back.
No big deal.

“Whoa, who’re you aiming at?”
“Finally.”

Dodging bullets is child’s play for even the lowest of my crew.
These guys, treated like officers, wouldn’t get a scratch from punks like that.

Want to dodge a bullet-fast attack? Dodge the bullet first.
To survive, you get strong—training and cyberware.
I didn’t raise these guys to drop with a hole in their head.
A scratch? Back to training.

“Ugh, easy, easy!”

I can’t even turn at the brutal sound of breaking bones behind me.
I built this crew, but their ruthlessness numbs me.
I’ll do the job, but I try not to look.

“…You… think you’ll… get away with this…?”

A wheezing, dying voice grates on my ears, annoying me.
I dig in my ear with my pinky, pulling out yellow gunk.
Ugh, gotta clean this.
The city’s dust in my ears is more irritating than that guy’s threats.

“Wonder why you don’t know our name, huh?”

You nobodies.

Look around—even if they’re not top brass, Sixth Street’s ex-soldiers are scattered like trash now.
If this display of force isn’t surprising, it’s because they know our strength all too well.
A familiar scene.
No way our name wouldn’t spread.
It hits me then.

“Why’s it only Rogue’s crew who knows we wiped out Maelstrom in one district?”

Sure, she keeps her people tight, but the real reason is the rumors don’t spread.
They should’ve figured it out.
My flat, calm voice carries a weight that shifts their pain to fear.

“No one’s survived fighting us. From Animal freaks to gang bosses.”

Blue masks, eyes burning as blue as the masks themselves.

Know why our name’s so damn hard to say?

Sure, a simple English name like “Goblin” could’ve worked, but we picked this for style—and because nothing fits us better.

Here one moment, gone the next.
Our tracks vanish.
We protect people because we like them.
We guard them because we love to hang out.

But then, out of nowhere, a terrifying figure appears behind you.
A group of ghosts, staring with eyes glowing blue in the dark.

“That’s why they call us—”

Dokkaebi.