The people from the black clinic didn't put up much resistance—or rather, the moment they saw Officer Andy from the NCPD Special Operations Division, they'd already half-surrendered. And when they saw KK, they completely folded, spilling every single crime they could remember.
From kicking a virtual flowerbed on the roadside, to loudly cursing that NCPD Chief Johnson was definitely impotent, to stealing the neighbor girl's energy bar when they were kids—if they could remember it and say it, they confessed it. And all they asked for was one thing:
A dignified death—thirty minutes by firing squad would be fine—just don't leave them in the same room with KK.
"Relax. You won't all be executed. As long as you write down the buyer's name and clearly hand over the route, only two-thirds of you will be executed. And KK won't be the one carrying it out."
Under Andy's reassurance, even those who knew full well they were among the ones marked for execution visibly relaxed a little.
Anyone who'd lived on the streets knew their ending long ago. Getting shot? That was part of the game. And if you cooperated fully before the execution, maybe you could get it reduced to life in prison. That was infinitely better than being in the same room with KK.
A bullet to the brain meant it was over. But ten seconds in a locked room with KK? No one knew what that man might do.
Even if KK was in a good mood and only gave them a "light" treatment—skinning, tendon-stripping, bone-snapping, marrow-digging—that was still beyond anything they could endure. Compared to that kind of agony, a quick bullet to the head was sweet release. And if KK happened to be in a bad mood… well, no one could predict what he'd do to them.
The fear of the unknown magnifies endlessly in the human mind—especially for people who'd seen more than their share of gore in a black clinic. The more they imagined, the more they felt that getting your brains blown out was practically paradise.
"Hurry up and sign." One of the lackeys grabbed a "pen" with trembling hands. "I'd rather eat a bullet now than gamble on whether KK had a bad breakfast."
"You grabbed the wrong thing. We use electronic signatures here—you're holding the recorder."
Andy helpfully pointed it out, tapping the edge of the tablet with his pen tip. The blue glow of the screen flickered over the lackey's pale face. "Unless you'd prefer Karl to take that and show you how it works?"
The sound of chairs scraping violently against the floor filled the interrogation room as three black clinic members lunged for the e-pen. The speed reminded Andy of a supermarket flash sale for synthetic meat.
The speed and efficiency with which this crew began confessing was almost unbelievable.
Meanwhile, in the observation room on the other side of the one-way glass, Karl watched. Johnson walked up beside him.
"You're not working?" Karl asked.
"Just finished. Heard you and Andy brought in some people."
Johnson slid his phone into his tactical pocket. In the glass's reflection, the lackey inside was sobbing as he gave up the coordinates to a cyberware warehouse.
"Honestly," Johnson said, tapping the glass, "we should print your picture on the cover of the Suspect Rights Notification. Let the perps get a good look before interrogation—cut the time in half."
"Oh, please. I'm not some interrogation machine."
Karl sounded exasperated. "I mean, I don't think I've done anything that outrageous. V's killed more people than me—and been nastier about it—so why's my reputation the one getting worse?"
"I remember not long ago," Johnson began, "we got a tip on the underground channel. Said that last Thursday, someone saw KK go into a Scav hideout, and not long after, walk out licking something white that looked like brain matter.
"When NCPD arrived, every Scav head had been sliced perfectly in half, brain matter scattered all over the floor. And there was this one guy—completely broken—screaming and sobbing like he'd seen something beyond terrifying."
Johnson took his phone out again, tapped a few times, and held it up for Karl to see.
The screen showed a blurry image with a blood-red warning text:
Watson District Morning Bulletin: Today's KK special—Monomolecular "easy-open" brain breakfast. Please avoid going outside while KK is eating.
"…"
Monomolecular easy-open brain breakfast? Was that supposed to be him?
Last Thursday?
Karl thought back.
He did remember dealing with some Scavs then. But all he'd done was walk out of his place with an ice cream, notice some Scavs tailing him, take care of them quickly, and then, to keep the melting ice cream from dripping on his hand, he'd been licking it as he walked. That was all.
He stared at the blurry, unfocused photo—taken from at least two hundred meters away, the lens trembling with fear.
"I'm sick of these rumor-mongering bastards."
Karl looked at Johnson. "Come on, Johnson—you, of all people, have seen the bodycam footage. I was just eating ice cream. And that so-called traumatized witness? Just some poor bastard the Scavs had pumped full of neurostimulants. His screaming was from cortical overload, not me. How the hell did the story get this twisted?"
"Of course I know," Johnson said matter-of-factly. "No one in the department knows you better than me and Andy. You wouldn't believe how many of your crime scenes we've cleaned up. But those people? They'll never believe it."
He pointed to the people on the other side of the glass—barely literate, their statements messy and repetitive, some already crying under Andy's prompts.
"They like to judge others by themselves. When they smash someone's knees with a steel pipe or rip someone's guts out, they don't even blink. So naturally, they think that KK—someone with such a big name in Night City—must be far crueler, using methods they can't even imagine. Enough of that, and everyone believes it."
"So that's how my name turned into some kind of urban legend."
Karl glanced at the people confessing. "If this keeps up, I'll scare people off just by walking down the street."
"No, you won't."
Johnson crossed his arms, his thumb rubbing over the etched NCPD on his badge.
"The people you've rescued from Scavs, the ones you've pulled out of gunfights—everyone you've helped, everyone we've helped—as long as they believe, that's all that matters.
"As for these people…" Johnson's expression turned cold, dismissive. "Who the hell cares what scum believe?"
"You swore, Mr. Johnson."
"Then call it a slip of the tongue. I am the chief now—gotta watch what I say."
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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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