For anyone who had been scraping by on the streets for more than a month, surprise visits from the NCPD were nothing new.
In this city, especially for those lurking in the gray areas—runners, mercs, organ dealers—if you'd never been hassled by the NCPD, people would start to wonder if you had some dirty secret arrangement with the pigs. Especially for those desperate types dealing in high-risk, illegal cyberware—they all had contingency plans ready for the NCPD.
But KK's appearance shredded all those plans to pieces.
The ripperdoc in charge of the underground clinic caught a glimpse of that silhouette on the external shutter cam and immediately froze.
His first instinct wasn't to grab a weapon, or to sound the alarm. It was to slam the emergency lockdown protocol. He didn't even care about the patient on the operating table with their chest cavity half-exposed and mods halfway installed—let alone warning his basement colleagues. As the blast-proof steel shutters began to descend, he was already yanking open the hidden floor hatch, diving into the reeking sewer tunnels like a rat bolting from a sinking ship.
Anyone who had KK show up at their door would do the same. The illegal ripperdoc didn't feel the slightest bit of shame in abandoning his teammates—he knew damn well that if the roles were reversed, they'd do exactly the same.
He was the first to flee… and the first to be caught.
"Smells like a slaughterhouse in here."
In the darkness, his cybernetic eyes picked up a black-and-white figure—it looked like... a talking dog?
Then everything went black.
Meanwhile, in the underground clinic.
The thunderous crash of the blast-proof shutters shook the surgical instruments.
"Shit! What the hell was that?!" In the underground lounge, several of the clinic's members jumped to their feet. "Something go wrong upstairs? Anyone online? Hello?!"
The comms channel only returned static.
"What happened?"
Everyone stared at each other in the dim light. If the lockdown had been triggered by accident, someone upstairs would've already been yelling through the radio. And if it were a raid, they'd be hearing gunfire. But now—there was only silence. A deep, unnatural silence, like the entire building had been dumped into a vacuum.
Fourteen people were in the basement. Two of them were nominally in charge, and they exchanged a glance—both clearly sensing something was very wrong.
They were originally from two rival crews, both newcomers to Night City. They'd clashed fiercely at first, but quickly realized neither side could take the other down. So they struck a truce. Over drinks, they discovered they were oddly complementary—one had access to high-risk cyberware sources, the other was an expert in black-market surgery. And thus, a money-making scheme was born.
After two months of setup, the clinic opened for business. In just thirty days, they'd already far surpassed expectations. At this pace, another six months of work and they could all cash out, wipe their records clean, and vanish into luxury.
Then came tonight—this strange, silent anomaly.
What the hell was going on?
Everyone wanted answers. Many had already drawn their weapons, pointing them toward the only stairwell leading up.
Bzzzzzzzt.
The unanswered radio call echoed through the basement. The two leaders exchanged another look—no words needed. Their time together had bred a certain sync. They each drew their weapons and crept toward the stairs.
A leader has to take the front.
They'd learned that back in the turf war days—if you cowered in the back, no one would respect you. Even now, as small-time bosses, that instinct hadn't changed. When danger strikes, you lead.
Both were wearing subdermal armor. Not the heavy military-grade kind, but good enough to take a few rounds. If it came to gunfire, they could always retreat, blast through the pre-rigged escape wall, and slip away through the sewers.
But they didn't want to run.
This clinic had taken months to build. The clients, the gear, the supply chains—all paid for with cold, hard eddies. To abandon it now? Unthinkable.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the idiot upstairs knocked himself out mid-surgery and triggered the lockdown. Maybe…
Maybe they could still salvage the situation.
The more confident one reached the concealed doorway, fingers brushing the hidden panel. The door had been specially designed to emit no noise when opened. He pushed gently—
And peered into the clinic.
Under the dim operating lights, his cybernetic eyes scanned the room.
No one.
The surgeon who'd been upstairs was gone, nowhere to be seen. The security door had deployed without any signs of forced entry.
He gestured to the one behind him, then cautiously entered the room.
One step. Two steps.
No ambush. No traps. Only the faint electric hum of sterilized lamps. The tension in his spine made even his armored subdermal plating ache.
Something wasn't right.
Could it really just be a freak accident? But where the hell had his man gone?
Just as the thought crossed his mind, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
It came from a blood-stained surgical drape.
The kind usually laid beneath patients to catch the blood splatter. Here in the clinic, they used them as makeshift curtains during open procedures. The cloth was trembling.
He signaled again to the other man, took a deep breath, and crept toward the cloth.
Both hands moved at once—left hand yanking the curtain aside, right hand aiming his gun at whatever was underneath.
Rustle—
Behind the curtain was a man. A patient. His chest had been opened up all the way to the fourth rib, lungs twitching faintly under residual anesthesia. The incision was so clean you could still read the serial number on the synthetic lung plating. His fingers spasmed involuntarily, like a skinned frog still kicking from muscle memory.
He was a client.
The man recognized him—someone scheduled for a procedure today.
So if the client was here… where was the surgeon?
His temples pulsed. The client hadn't gone anywhere. But the doc—
The answer lay beside the table—a floor hatch pried open. A black tunnel yawning like the throat of some great beast.
The bastard had fled. Mid-surgery, no less. Triggered the lockdown, bolted straight for the sewers.
But what the hell could terrify a man who's sawed open over thirty live bodies to the point he'd abandon a job without even radioing—
"You're the last one."
The voice cut through his thoughts. A hand settled gently on his shoulder.
Warm. Almost reassuring.
But the voice…
It was a name from hell itself.
"…KK."
He shut his eyes.
No wonder the guy ran.
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🔥 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS
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🔥 THE STORY DOESN'T STOP HERE. NEITHER DOES HE.
Night City breaks people every day.
Some crawl away.
Some disappear.
And some simply refuse to stop.
Cyberpunk: The Relentless has 500+ chapters ahead available for readers who want to keep going.
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⚡ NO BRAKES. NO MERCY. NO TURNING BACK.
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Every victory creates another enemy.
Every enemy leads to something bigger.
And Night City always wants another body.
🔥 500+ CHAPTERS AHEAD.
👉 Why stop now?
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