“Paella, gazpacho, cocido, gambas al ajillo, and… flan.”

Blanka looked at the spread on Karl’s side of the table—half the damn surface was covered.

Yep. This guy was seriously here to eat.

Soup, dessert, mains, all served at once. He wasn’t pacing himself. He was going in.

She glanced down at her own plate—a lonely little avocado and artichoke salad.

All the effort she’d put into planning this evening? Felt pointless now.

Karl spooned up some paella, took a sip of soup, and gave her salad a curious glance.

“That any good?”

“It’s healthy.”

“Oh.”

Translation: tastes like crap.

Corp people, especially those high up? Different breed. Health over flavor, always.

Watching Karl eat—enthusiastic, unbothered, almost messy—Blanka shifted a little, then finally spoke.

“Would you… like to hear about me?”

“You’re stressed and need to vent.”

Karl nodded as he bit into a real shrimp. His tone softened.

“I want to hear it.”

He wasn’t exactly polished—especially not around women—but when someone needed to talk, really talk, Karl listened.

Because if you didn’t even have someone to listen when you were drowning, then Night City would finish you fast.

Blanka’s eyes shimmered faintly.

“Thank you.”

She finally understood why she couldn’t bring herself to get angry at him.

He’d been rude. Dismissive. Barely noticed her dress. But still—no anger.

Because he was honest.

That rare, almost extinct thing in Night City.

He didn’t pretend. Didn’t posture. Didn’t flatter or manipulate.

He said what he thought, did what he felt.

He wanted food, so he ordered it.

He thought her dress was heavy? He said so.

But then—he complimented her, sincerely.

No masks. No corporate games. Just… Karl.

He was free.

Light.

Like the sun—rising, falling, shining on everything whether you deserved it or not.

Maybe she didn’t need to vent after all.

Maybe just being here was enough.

In this city of fear, where words could get you shot and trust could get you killed, sitting across from someone like that…

That was peace.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Alcázar?”

“Of course. Don Quixote’s hometown. And Cervantes’, too.”

“A place both author and character call home… it’s quiet, beautiful. I still think about it.”

A genuine smile tugged at her lips—unfiltered, real.

“I lived there until I was eight. My grandparents passed, and my parents moved us to Málaga, Andalusia.”

She paused.

“Málaga’s gorgeous. Warm, scenic. But it never felt like home. Because that’s when my parents got involved with Militech. After that… our house wasn’t ours anymore. It became a meeting point. A war room.”

She looked distant.

“I wasn’t allowed downstairs. I lived in the attic. My world was books… and the tiny window that showed me a sliver of the sunlit street.”

Her voice dropped.

“I’d watch other kids run, play, cry. I envied them. I wanted to be them. But I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t leave?”

“Not a chance. In corporate warfare, family means leverage. My parents told everyone I was in a secret location. No one knew I was right above them.”

“…”

“Eventually, even that little window was sealed. No light. No noise. Just books. Ten square meters of darkness. And whatever sunlight leaked through a crack they left me.”

She blinked slowly.

“Maybe I was smart. Maybe just desperate. Four years in, I figured out how to manipulate electronics. My parents saw that and gave me my first real terminal.”

She exhaled.

“From then on, I stopped dreaming of the sky. I learned to see the world through a screen.”

Karl nodded.

“That why you were able to check the surveillance footage yourself? When you didn’t trust your team?”

“Partly. The street was simple enough. I gave four people the same task—they all sent back identical footage. If they were conspiring? Then I knew I had no one left.”

Blanka picked up her fork and slowly took a bite of avocado.

She didn’t speak. But her eyes met his.

Your turn.

Karl gave her a wry smile.

“My turn, huh?”

He didn’t have a sob story. But he had memories. He’d swapped tales with Jack, V, and the others over greasy bar food plenty of times.

He could do that.

“Not yet.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Mind lowering your head?”

“…My head?”

Blanka blinked, confused—but complied.

A flash of light whipped past where the crown of her head had just been.

By the time she looked up, Karl was on his feet—monowire out, hand raised, clutching something midair.

Two broken, metallic halves.

“Mechanical insect,” he said flatly.

“You’ve been marked, Blanka.”

He opened his palm.

Inside—what was once a red-plated ladybug.

Now: sliced in half.

“Surveillance drone. No way a ladybug this big’s just flying around Night City.”

Blanka froze.

“But I had the place swept. Every inch. My team monitored everything.”

“It’s here.”

Karl narrowed his eyes.

A flicker of light cut through the air—not ambiance, not reflections. Targeting light. Precise.

He knew that wavelength.

“Watch out. Nekomata.”

The restaurant’s windows exploded—shattered by a burst of sound and kinetic impact.

Time slowed.

Now, Karl thought.

Now the job really begins.

He grabbed Blanka’s shoulder, shoved her head down again, shielding her.

Glass shimmered in the air around them.

Karl’s eyes locked onto a figure—400 meters out, perched on the third floor of a nearby building.

Sniper.

They locked eyes.

Karl smiled faintly.

“So… what number are you?”

.

.

.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep