Chapter 2 : White Old Man

“What a hassle…”

No money, just wasted time, and no fun in it.
These periodic events pop up like clockwork, just when you think you’ve forgotten them.
You’d think I’d get used to it, but fighting—especially killing—isn’t something I want to grow accustomed to.
Still, the fact that I’m getting numb to it feels… unsettling.

“Wow…”
“Hey, kid. You hurt?”

I extend a hand to the boy, who’s collapsed, legs giving out.
His wide, dazed eyes stare up, like he’s seen something incomprehensible.
Was it that shocking?

“Sorry you had to see that. Take care.”
“W-Wait, hold on!”
“No time. I’m busy.”

No clue why he’s calling after me, but I scratch my head and step onto the main street.
It’s clearly a busy road, yet it’s no different from the alleys—people sprawl about, barely conscious, if at all.
A world where law and common sense have crumbled, this cesspool is my reality.
Every time I see it, a sigh escapes me.

“I’m taking these guys’ chips—!”

So that was his goal.
No way these street rats have anything valuable, and I don’t have a hobby of beating people up for pocket change when I’ve got paid gigs.
A kid fixated on money in a life-or-death situation—born and bred for this city.
It’s pitiful yet so typical, I can’t help but let out a hollow laugh.
Without turning back, I wave a hand, signaling him to do whatever, annoyance heavy in my gesture.

Five minutes since the job came in, and thanks to the city’s bottom-feeders, I’m running late.
Sprinting now might get me there on time, but one wrong step could crack the pavement.
Not a big deal, maybe, but after getting billed for city property damage, I’ve been trying to hold back.

Only one option left.
I pull up the screen in my hand and “call” a vehicle.
You’d think I’d be used to this damned city, but moments like these—where I can still feel sane—make me wonder if it’s thanks to these conveniences or because this world feels so unreal.
It’s almost a relief, keeping me from sinking too deep into this place’s twisted familiarity.

I scroll through the list and “call” a motorcycle.
No idea how it looks to others, but glance over, and there it is—a bike materializing on the roadside.
Convenient, sure, but the game-like absurdity of it makes my teeth grind.
If this is reality, act like it. If it’s fake, let me go back to my old world.
This murky mix of both, trapping me here, fills my chest with hollow frustration.

Others might say I’m whining about convenience, but even after all this time, the lack of reality drives me up the wall.
It’s not just inexperience—it’s rage at being stuck in this irrational world.

A cyberpsycho, though?
That might just be the perfect outlet for this anger.

I breathe in, like inhaling smoke through my lungs.
With a puff of cigarette haze, I become a streak, tearing through the city.

BANG—!

A heavy explosion of gunpowder, followed by the addictive sting of ammonia.
In an era of flying cars, a “gun”—a tool made purely to kill—feels out of place, yet countless barrels point in one direction.

“This is the third time this month!”
“Fck, are cyberpsychos coming standard with bulletproofing now?!”
“Quit yapping and keep shooting, fck!”

Raw curses fill the air, but no one bats an eye.
Some join in, spitting thicker swears mixed with blood and phlegm.
Normally, a single hit from these weapons—designed for suppression or killing—would stop a target cold.
But not these guys.
Cyberpsychos, modified to the extreme, abandoning their last shred of humanity.
What they wanted—raw strength, domination, fame—doesn’t matter to me.

All that matters is pumping as many bullets and smoke into them to shut them down.
Otherwise, it’s your head that’ll burst, so they pull the trigger with everything they’ve got, under the name of “police.”

Zzt—!

“What the—!”
“F*cking hell, this bastard’s hacked!”
“Dodge it yourself!”
“You think that’s possible, you lunatic?!”

No one knows what a cyberpsycho sees.
Just that their mouth—often the only human part left—splits wide, stretching to their ears.
A gleeful cackle as they overheat their foe’s cyberware, cooking brains and paralyzing bodies.
With tech skills pushed to the limit, they’re monsters.
Bulletproof bodies, no weapons needed—just a wave of their hand, and a head explodes.

“Where’s the backup?! When’s MaxTac getting here?!”
“You called for backup, right?!”
“Wasn’t that you?!”
“F*cking hell!!”

In this small war, the odds are slim, and that means their heads are next to burst.
Yet they can’t run.
Called a gang, but they’re still NCPD—nominally police.
They’re meat shields, buying time for Night City’s elite, MaxTac, the so-called cyberpsycho rehabilitation unit, the pinnacle of force.

Unless I’m here.

“Look at that!”
“If you can’t control civilians, what the f*ck are the guys in the back doing?!”
“Hey, wait a sec…!”

A figure in a white old man’s mask, cloaked in black, not even skin showing.
Not overly large or imposing, just an average build, maybe someone who works out, visible under the coat.
Normally, they’d pity some lunatic jumping in to die and use them as another meat shield.

“That’s… ‘The Old Man’!”
“The White Old Man!”

He’s an urban legend, a ghost story drifting beyond real tales.
Sightings pile up, and the craters left at his supposed scenes linger as proof.

“I thought it was a lie…!”
“Wasn’t it just a myth?!”

Yeah, he’s been erased so thoroughly it’s hard to believe he’s real.
He meant to vanish, and to the corporations, a symbol like him is intolerable.
To mercs, he might just seem like someone mimicking a legend, but those who know, know.

He’s real.

“No wonder they called me.”

The white mask, gleaming under the sun, silently scans the scene.
Corpses with exploded heads litter the ground, a nauseating sight, but he just shrugs at the surreal disconnect and looks ahead.
Not pierced by bullets, but overflowing from within, a clear sign of a cyberattack.

And attacks like that don’t work on me.

They say the White Old Man is immune to cyberattacks—tech, runners, all of it.
He’s the last specter of the cyber age.
In the electronic gaze, he’s invisible, like he doesn’t exist.

Of course.
I don’t have a single piece of cyberware, not even the implants they shove in at birth.
Sure, bug patties are edible, and mechanical limbs might do the trick.
But a chip in my brain? Sorry, that’s beyond what I can stomach.

I pull my knee up, bending at the waist.

One step, and the ground trembles.

BEEP—

[Warning, warning. Localized earthquake detected.]

“What the hell is this?!”
“Evacuate! Evacuate!”

It’s not breaking apart—just a vibration spreading from me, like an earthquake.
A phenomenon even future tech can’t comprehend.

They say the White Old Man hates the world’s absurdity.
Hates those who crush others with power, manipulate at will, treat lives like toys.

Of course.
This place already feels unreal, and just when I think I’m adjusting, something shatters that sense again.
A world that quakes like this from one stomp?
No way that feels real.
Even my own absurd body disgusts me.

But that’s a separate matter.
I ended up here, and I’ve got to live.
If that’s the case, might as well be strong—especially in a world where life flickers out like a candle.
My complaint? Send me back to my world, damn it.

The trembling ground makes the cyberpsycho stumble, unable to stand steady.
It can’t find its center, blinded by the collapsing earth.

Second step, and I’m already in front of it.

Nothing fancy—just a light “jump.”

That’s all it took to be there.

They say the White Old Man doesn’t use guns or weapons.
No real reason—just don’t feel like it.
If I had to say, I’ve never seen a weapon tougher than my body.
Weapons that break every time I use them rack up extra costs, and while I’ve got an inventory system, scrolling through it is a pain.

Simply put, I’m stronger.

Hup—

I inhale, spreading my palm, sharpening it to a blade.
It’s a spearhand strike—perfectly honed, a blade in itself.

Not slashing—piercing.

My arm breaks the sound barrier, tearing through the air.
The sonic boom shatters nearby glass, weak as it is.
Like a lance, my hand plunges into the cyberpsycho’s gaping mouth, piercing straight through the back of its head.

“Gah—!”
“Clean through. No personal grudge, though.”

Or maybe there is?
Killing this much does weigh on you.
You or me, same deal.

I flip my upward palm downward, gripping the pierced section.
No tricks, no finesse—just raw, overwhelming strength.
That’s enough.

Lucky this is a game world where I can pump stats.
Strength, intelligence, whatever—thank god it’s that kind of game.
Even if it was a trash game with just traits, I’d probably make do.

With idle thoughts, I look down at the “scrap” before me.
A yawn-worthy opponent.
No sense of danger.

Tear it down like paper, and it’s over.
From jaw to gut, it’s hollowed out, wires sparking with electricity.
No organs, huh. Figures.

“This is why I hate machines. Only the weak rely on them.”

Sure, I’m only this strong because of the game system, but if you’ve got a problem, try getting stuck in a dystopian game world yourself.
A world dripping with blood and organs, where machines outnumber flesh.
A world where you’d do anything to survive.
Get trapped in this closed-off hell, and you’d change your tune.
Guaranteed.