Chapter 7 : Local Owner

“Another mess, huh.”
“Sorry.”
“This one’s big. Real big.”
“Uh… couldn’t help it.”

They were f*cking bastards who wouldn’t listen.
Their bug-like intelligence pissed me off, so I acted without thinking about the cleanup.
That’s the trap.
I stop scratching my head and meet Rogue’s eyes.
Her usual smile doesn’t match the heavy air—her crew’s vibe screams they’ve made up their minds.

“…Gonna spread the word now?”
“Yeah.”

I pull a thin cigarette from my pocket.
Viktor’s custom drug—strong enough to hit even this body, made at my reluctant request.
To forget this bitter reality, I put it to my lips, and a quiet hand lights it for me.

I exhale thoughts with the smoke.

I’ve been looking for a decent cleaner to scrub this filthy city.
Someone to make it as clean as the world I came from.
If we stepped up as vigilantes, we’d just birth another corporation, and this cycle would repeat.
So I didn’t set the bar too high, not even compared to my memories of 2022.

I just wanted to change a world where looting, arson, and murder are as common as eating.
A world where lunatics bet on daily death tolls like it’s a lottery.
I wanted to compromise with reality, even just a little.

But.

“Knowing those so-called vigilantes are this kind of trash, no one’s fit to protect this city.”
“What’s got you so worked up?”
“Hmph… they don’t see people as people. That’s it.”

Huff—

No need to overthink.
Wipe them all out.

And we’ll step up.
Front and center, spreading our name, branding it into the world.
From the ashes of the old system, we’ll rise.

“Sigh… I can’t tell if you’re righteous or just a dreamer.”
“I’ll keep the collateral low.”
“Forget it. We already agreed you’d cover us, so just don’t go too far.”

This is why I can’t ditch Rogue.
Even knowing she’s tangled with Arasaka’s bastards, playing small games.
No matter how upright she is, how much she hates corporations like Johnny did, time can soften the edges.
Pushing that thought aside, I step forward.

“Call if there’s trouble. I’ll send a few guys nearby.”
“Don’t get a hole in your head. Hanging with a dreamer’s fun!”

She’s got a way with words.
Sure, this reality’s abnormal enough to call me a dreamer, but soon it’ll shake with the world.

With the elusive name of Dokkaebi.

I swallow thick smoke with the charred society, closing my eyes.

Haa—

Dare I say, constant chaos isn’t unique to this damn Night City.
The ordinary, boring days I lost feel more precious now that they’re gone.
All that’s left is this shtty reality.
How shtty?
They openly bet on daily deaths like it’s a game.

Time to ditch the common sense I had, but the moment I do, I stop being me—stop being human.

“Muscles and cyberware… that size, fake muscles? Still got guys like that? Cleanup wasn’t thorough enough.”
“We’ll handle it.”

Let me rephrase: those bastards speeding down the road, spraying bullets, aren’t human.

No clue who’s crazy enough to shoot up the streets in broad daylight, but in this district, it’s either brainless gangsters, corporate-backed elites, or just psychos.
In a world where money justifies anything, pinpointing the culprit is a headache.

“No, don’t kill them.”

So we grab them.
Whoever they are.
Catch them and make sure they can’t stir sh*t in my turf.

I open my eyes wide and pull on the voice-modulating mask covering from nose to jaw.
This is my public face, my outward persona.

If I unleashed my full strength in this role, I’d expose my true self like an idiot.
Especially in front of my crew, who don’t know who I really am.

I shove a massive black pistol into my waistband—so heavy it could twist an arm just firing it.
Not my style to use weapons, but if I’m gonna look badass, this is it.
Expensive as hell—pure silver casings with mercury-tipped rounds.
Marvells Chemical NNA 9.
39cm long, 16kg, 13mm explosive steel rounds.
In simple terms: a cannon in pistol form.
Gold-etched name on its black skin: Jackal.

No idea who they are, but if you’re shooting up my turf, you should’ve expected a hole or two in your head.
A pointless, time-wasting hassle.
Did I say don’t kill?
Changed my mind—put holes in their skulls.

“F*ck—stop shooting! Who the hell fired?!”

A furious, trembling voice bursts from the neon-lit car.
These damn idiots did something they shouldn’t, and the rage comes naturally.
But the louder voice isn’t anger—it’s fear, unlike usual.

“Why’re you freaking out? You get hit?”
“You f*cking moron, don’t you see where we are? Need your eyes? I’ll rip ‘em out free!”
“Stop shooting and try stopping that car then!”

Fair point.
Without firepower, catching that car’s a pipe dream—especially if it’s Arasaka’s.

But not here.
Hell, shooting in front of Arasaka Tower would be safer.
They don’t blink at bombs or bodies unless it’s aimed at them.

But not here.
Ten minutes ago, it wouldn’t have mattered.
In Watson, a high-risk zone, it’d be encouraged.

But not here.
Not because it’s an industrial hub.
Not because crime’s endless.
Not because a veteran gang used to run it.

One reason only.

“Sixth Street got dismantled in two days here! Because of dumbasses like you shooting up the streets!”

This is Santo Domingo. Arroyo.
Dokkaebi’s turf.
Blue-masked lunatics screaming justice in 2077, like Stone Age relics.
But behind that relic lies a demon ready to devour the world.

Burning cars flip, painting the background blood-red.
A chaotic scene, perfect for a madhouse.
And they made it in the ghosts’ den.

“F*ck, warn us first!”
“Tried to, but you pulled the trigger without listening, you psycho!”
“Floor it! We gotta get out—”

The car lurches like it’s flipping.
A single shot—unbelievably loud—lifts it, then slams it down, barely functional.
If the rear hadn’t been blown off, that is.

No more talking.
Something’s here.
Floor it.
Get out.

That hope shatters as another vehicle appears.
Its emblem: a fanged demon with glowing eyes.

Like their own wrecked car—Arasaka’s, flipped from reckless shooting—a pink van lies ruined.
Rear gone, passengers scattered.
Just like them now.

“G-Goblin…”
“Dokkaebi, asshole. Need me to spell it? D-O-K-K-A-E-B-I, f*ck.”

Can’t help but curse.
Not only did they trash our turf, they ignored our name and called us whatever.

“Animals don’t listen to words. Why’s that? Their heads match their name?”

F*ck, “Goblin” sounds lame.

“Boss, leave ‘em any longer, and we’ll have another body!”
“Can’t have that. Load ‘em up and go.”
“What about this limo?!”
“Looks like Arasaka’s. Call Trauma Team or let ‘em die.”

We only protect civilians.
Arasaka or Militech scum should be grateful we don’t kill them.
Got a problem? Bring it.

“Save… save us…”
“Oh, these bastards are still alive.”

Scratching my head with a 39cm pistol—a tough move—I regret it instantly and aim at the half-dead bodies.

“You thought you could wreck our turf and not get a couple holes in your head?”

Next time, be born smart enough to remember this.