At 7 AM, Carl opened his eyes.

Out of habit, he got up, washed up, and went to the fridge to grab bread and milk.

Then, it hit him.

“Wait… I don’t have to go to school today, do I?”

Holding the still unopened loaf and milk carton, Carl put them back in the fridge and sat down on the couch, holding his head.

Shit. Woke up early for nothing.

“You guys awake?”

Carl sent a message to Oliver and Jackie.

After waiting a moment, no reply.

Guess they’re adjusting faster than me. They’re probably still asleep.

Thinking for a second, Carl decided to message David.

Carl: You up? How was yesterday?

David: Already at the academy. I went home after they hooked up Tanaka. Maine said interns didn’t need to be involved in what comes next.

Carl: Did Maine say anything?

David: Yeah, he said once this gig’s done, he’ll take me on a few smaller jobs first. Seems like that’s how they all got started.

Carl: Looks like Maine really plans to bring you in.

Testing new members with small jobs—that was standard practice for street crews. Maine, having risen from the bottom, was a lot more experienced in that kind of process than Carl and his crew.

After a moment’s thought, Carl sent one last message.

Carl: From now on, you’re on your own when it comes to school and BD stuff. Do your best.

He didn’t wait for a reply before grabbing his Kenshin, opening the door, and heading out for breakfast.

His fridge was still stocked with frozen pork, but defrosting it would take too long. He wasn’t about to waste time frying pork slices in the morning.

A quick bite at a street stall sounded much better.

The elevator was packed.

When Carl stepped in, six other people were already inside.

Glancing at the random mix of Night City megabuilding residents, Carl simply stood in the middle.

If this were a movie, those six people would probably be assassins sent by some secret organization to take him out.

But this was Night City.

People were too busy surviving to play out movie clichés.

To the average Night City resident, “assassination” meant pulling out a Lexington and unloading it into someone’s back in broad daylight.

The elevator reached the ground floor. Carl stepped out.

Megabuilding ground floors were labeled as Floor 1.

In that regard, Night City’s system—a relic from the old NUSA days—was more familiar to Carl than the British-style floor numbering from his past life.

As usual, he walked over to the small food stall near the megabuilding exit and took a seat.

He greeted the familiar vendor.

“Morning, got anything good?”

“Ah, customer! What can I get ya?”

“Fried noodles, with synthetic egg mixed in. Light on the starch sausages—just a little. And some ‘organic’ greens.”

In 2075, “organic greens” weren’t actually real vegetables.

A corporation trademarked the term and slapped it on synthetic food products, just like XX Cola or XX Iced Tea.

They had similar labels for “organic pork” and other lab-grown meats.

Carl could tolerate starch sausages, but only barely.

At least they had more starch than synthetic meat, making them better than the stuff that tasted like rotten wood and melted plastic.

“Got it! Just give me a sec!”

While the vendor got to work on the grill, Carl went over to the mini vending machine attached to the stall and bought a sweet tea.

Then—he dialed T-Bug.

He had made up his mind.

He was taking the job.

Beep.

Carl expected her to be asleep—or at least ignore his call.

But the moment he dialed—

She picked up.

Was she an early riser or just a night owl who never slept?

Carl had no idea.

On the other end of the call, a woman’s voice came through.

“Who are you? How did you get my contact code?”

At the same time, Carl noticed a data stream flowing through the connection.

T-Bug was probing his system, trying to get a read on him.

High alert. Smart.

“I’m here through Wakako’s recommendation.”

That one sentence made T-Bug pause and stop her intrusion attempt.

“Wakako? Got it. So, you’re the merc she hired?”

“Something like that. She told me to reach out to you for details. What exactly is this job about?”

“Hold on a sec.”

T-Bug’s voice was less guarded now, but there was still some skepticism.

“Just dropping Wakako’s name isn’t enough. Could be some random gonk who overheard it from another merc. The ones Wakako hires usually have some reputation. Who are you?”

Carl caught the implication.

If he couldn’t name-drop himself or started dodging the question, the paused data stream would probably start digging again.

Carl wasn’t interested in playing cyberwar with his potential new partner.

He knew his limits—if he got too cocky, she might actually breach his system and pull up his entire ops history.

So, instead, he answered directly.

“I’m KK. Heard of me?”

“Merc KK?”

T-Bug paused briefly, then spoke again after processing the information.

“Didn’t think Wakako could pull someone like you in.”

“Aren’t you worried I might be an imposter?”

“In Night City? Anyone stupid enough to impersonate you and take fixer contracts hasn’t been born yet.”

“That’s… oddly flattering.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Reputation matters. Since it’s you, this gig just got a whole lot easier. Want the target’s details and kidnappers’ profiles now?”

Carl raised an eyebrow.

He had skimmed the briefing from Wakako the night before.

The file lacked critical information but did mention that the target was kidnapped at 10 PM.

That was barely nine hours ago—and T-Bug already had everything?

“Wait—detailed info? You sure about that? In this line of work, ‘detailed’ means digging up their entire family tree.”

“Maybe not that deep, but I know their family situations, current activities, hobbies, kinks, and even which sex dolls they regularly rent.”

Carl blinked.

Damn.

He was genuinely impressed.

He didn’t know many elite netrunners—himself (barely counts), Sasha, Lucy, Kiwi…

And even if all four of them worked together, pulling off what T-Bug just casually described would still take three to four days. Maybe longer.

She’s on another level.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Humans are social creatures. The moment they interact with society, they leave traces.”

The quote felt familiar.

Carl raised an eyebrow.

“Aristotle?”

“Oh? Didn’t expect you to know that.”

Carl skimmed through the files she sent while responding.

So this netrunner wasn’t just dangerously skilled—she was educated too.

Not something you saw often, considering how knowledge was hoarded these days.

Not many people on the streets even knew who Aristotle was.

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