Carl pushed into the ruined lobby of the abandoned apartment block, his boots crunching over debris scattered across the cracked concrete floor. Whatever had once stood here — furniture, walls, fixtures — was long gone, smashed to dust in the chaos. Only the weight-bearing support columns remained, stripped bare like the bones of a giant carcass. The air smelled of damp plaster, burnt wiring, and that stale mustiness all neglected places carried.
He didn't waste time. His sharp gaze swept the wreckage, immediately spotting the skeletal frame of a staircase along the left wall. But instinct — and the lessons of Night City — told him plain as day: the stairs were a death trap. If the shooters had any brains, they would've laced every step with landmines, tripwires, or god-knew-what cybernetic surprises. No way Carl was walking into that meat grinder.
Instead, his attention flicked upward. The ceiling hovered three meters above — typical height for these pre-Collapse projects. Spotting a recessed light fixture embedded into the cracked plaster, Carl's mind raced. He sized up the distance, did the math in a blink.
1.8 meters of his height. Another half-meter of vertical leap. Add a desperate reach, fueled by adrenaline?
It would be close.
Close enough.
With a flick of his wrist, the monowire implant in his right arm snapped free with a faint, metallic hiss. The ultra-fine filament slashed upwards in a precise square, shearing through the ceiling like a scalpel through tissue. Chunks of concrete and rebar crumbled downward, hammering the floor around him. Carl sidestepped instinctively, his muscles fluid, practiced.
He jumped.
His fingers caught the jagged edge of the second-floor slab. His monowire lashed out again, this time wrapping itself around the remnants of a second embedded fixture above. Grunting with effort, he pulled — the servo-motors in his wrist whirred, straining — hauling himself up, half climbing, half yanking his body weight. Plaster dust rained down as the light fixture above tore free with a shriek of metal, but it held just long enough.
Carl rolled onto the second floor, landing in a crouch. His monowire snapped back into its housing with a whiplike zing, though he could feel a slight grinding in the mechanism. Overuse. Abuse, really.
"Figures," Carl muttered to himself. "Bet Vic'd chew my ear off for this stunt."
The hall ahead stretched long and broken, riddled with shattered drywall and exposed wiring. Carl didn't pause. He repeated the process twice more — cut, climb, swing — ascending floor by floor with methodical precision. His palms stung. His shoulder ached. Each floor felt a little narrower, a little closer to the trap waiting above.
By the third floor, he stopped.
Here, the firefight below roared louder — gunfire like a hellish drumline. Rounds stitched the wreckage outside, echoing through the empty concrete shells like thunder.
Carl stayed low, his breathing slow and controlled. Sweat slicked his forehead, stinging his eyes.
He crept toward the battered stairwell, boots silent against the rubble.
Good. No tripwires. No glint of mines. Either the enemy was arrogant... or stupid.
He'd find out which soon enough.
Step by step, Carl climbed. His heartbeat was a war drum against his ribs.
When he reached the fourth floor landing, he spotted him — a gunman, standing at the far edge, silhouetted against the broken remains of a window, methodically firing down into the convoy below.
The man wielded an Arasaka TKI-20 Shingen, its smart-tracking muzzle jerking with each burst. The sleek black polymer frame and digital sights marked it as top-tier corp tech — way too fancy for your average street punk.
Carl scowled. Figures. Arasaka guns, Arasaka gear — but pointed at Arasaka's own convoy.
Inside job.
Always an inside job.
Seven meters. No cover. Nothing between them but stale air and bad luck. Carl knew better than to try sneaking closer. Smartguns didn't miss. If the guy so much as twitched backwards, Carl would eat a full mag to the face.
Fine.
No sneaking.
Carl raised his sidearm — a Kenshin heavy pistol, customized with reinforced recoil dampeners — and squeezed the trigger once.
One clean shot.
One bloom of blood spraying across the cracked windowframe.
The shooter dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, weapon clattering from his limp hands.
Carl didn't lower his pistol immediately. He advanced cautiously, clearing angles as he moved. Sweat itched under his jacket collar, but he ignored it, all focus.
At the gunman's corpse, Carl nudged the TKI-20 Shingen aside with his boot. His gut twisted at the sight — not from guilt, but from realization.
If the attackers had Shingens… this wasn't some amateur hit.
This was serious.
And downstairs, with their convoy exposed and their so-called 'protection' in chaos, Carl knew — the worst was still to come.