Second day of the team's break.
Karl opened his eyes in bed.
No emergency calls.
He rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to wash up, casually checking the messages that had arrived while he slept—none of them urgent.
First batch: Oliver and the gang.
Just photos. Bragging.
Next: messages from fixers.
Nothing new—just reminders to contact them first if he was planning to cut his break short.
Next batch...
Friends and acquaintances. Again, nothing noteworthy.
Hmm.
By the time he finished brushing his teeth, Karl had gone through everything.
Nothing left to do.
He hadn't realized while working how utterly empty his schedule could be once he was idle.
What now—go out for a decent meal and binge some braindance?
Except... the recent BDs were all trash. He'd already learned all the worthwhile tricks. Most new seasons were just uninspired cash grabs—riding the success of season one. The quality was nowhere near the originals. Just empty, numbing stimulation.
As much as he disliked JK, the guy's BDs really were top-tier in Night City. Since his downfall, there hadn't been many good editors left.
Thinking for a moment, Karl scanned his contacts and fired off a few messages.
"Mr. Kenichiro, what are you up to these days? Need anything done?"
"Branka, how's the cyberware calibration coming? When can I expect my shipment? Any new jobs? Anyone in the company getting on your nerves?"
Kenichiro: "Nothing for now. I'll contact you if I do. Don't text unless necessary—the line isn't secure."
Branka: "Still about one to two weeks left. As for new work—let's talk when I'm back in NC. Just left for Seattle. You texting me out of the blue? Rare. Miss me already?"
Karl glanced at Kenichiro's stiff reply, then replied to Branka:
"Nah. Just bored."
"Didn't your squad just start a break? Already done resting on day two?"
"Was gonna spend the day watching BD and having a good meal, but nothing good's out, and food doesn't take long. So I figured, while the team's resting, I'll pick up a side job or two."
"Not going through a fixer?"
Branka, in her AV, glanced at her assistant to confirm her schedule before replying:
"They'd be thrilled if you came back early."
"Fixer jobs are squad work. Can't risk being caught alone if things go south. But if it's something from you, I don't mind going solo."
Trust me, huh?
Branka froze.
Was this really Karl?
She ran a quick background check just to be sure—it was him.
She messaged again:
"You trust me? Aren't you worried I might sell you out?"
She remembered when Karl once asked her if he'd have to kill her someday for betraying him. And now... trust?
Just to be sure, she scanned her biometrics.
Nope—still awake.
"Aren't I just the corporate dog you said would sell anyone for profit?"
"Maybe what I trust is your judgment."
Branka stared at the reply.
"You won't sell me out until I'm worth the right price. I don't think your standards are as low as Faraday's."
Faraday.
She was the one who had introduced him back then—a fixer tied to Militech's street ops. But Faraday had blown the chance over a quick buck and lost Karl's trust for good. Now he was a joke among fixers.
Karl's point was clear: Even if Branka ever did sell him out, it'd be for a price she couldn't ignore.
And for some reason, that blunt and direct trust… made her fall silent.
This kind of honest, unfiltered trust—this was Karl's way.
Dazzling and sharp as ever.
"Well then, since I'm flattered, I do have a task. Originally, I was going to assign it to someone under me. It's not an official contract, so no pay—but you can keep a few things you find along the way."
"Keep stuff?"
Karl was now downstairs eating ketchup spaghetti at a food stall. After swallowing a bite of sauce-drenched noodles, he messaged back:
"What is it—transport or escort?"
"Remember what my old position was?"
Karl did.
"You were in logistics, right?"
"Right. I've been promoted, but my old unit's still mine. Lately, we've been quietly working with nomads out in the Badlands, intercepting Arasaka shipments. If you're interested, I'll arrange for you to meet my subordinate for a run."
"You're stealing from Arasaka regularly? Isn't that risky? What's worth poking them like that?"
"Just some equipment. It's not even clear how they're transporting it. The Badlands route is just one line my people handle. Most eyes are on the offshore routes. So—interested?"
Karl considered.
"Sure. I'm bored anyway."
"You really don't sit still, huh? I've sent her number. She's one of my top staff—might rise up soon. While you're at it, assess her loyalty for me. I'll reward you for that later."
Branka sent over a number—along with a name and profile.
Meredith Stout, Director of Military Tech Logistics.
Unlike Arasaka's "Directors," which were often glorified senior staff, Militech's Director rank was legit middle management. Equivalent to a department head.
Just one step below Branka herself.
At Arasaka, this would be the kind of position where plotting a coup was possible.
.
.
.
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