From the second Carl's bullet punched through the rooftop sniper, chaos detonated across the old concrete building like a lit fuse.
Below, the storm of gunfire briefly faltered, mercs and attackers alike catching the shift. The echoes didn't match the rhythm of the battle downstairs — sharper, closer.
"Someone's moving up!" barked one of the rooftop shooters, his voice jagged with panic.
"No way! No alarms triggered! No mines set off!" another snapped back, flicking frantic glances toward the stairwell.
"Three's down! Lost his vitals!" a third shouted, a tremor in his voice.
"Shut it! Hit the stairs! Find 'em, end 'em!"
Three men in Arasaka-pattern tactical armor scrambled from the makeshift firing positions, SMGs swinging as they rushed toward the stairwell. Their boots pounded the cracked floor, rattling loose dust from the broken ceiling beams.
They never made it.
Above them — tucked inside the hollowed-out light fixture where the ceiling was already spiderwebbed with cracks — a pinless frag grenade ticked down its final heartbeat.
There was no warning. No chance to shout.
Just a sudden whumpf — a concussive roar that lifted the floor under their boots like a kicked carpet.
The blast wave slammed upward like a giant's fist. Shards of concrete and rebar punched into armor, jagged steel ricocheting like shrapnel. Two of the mercs went down in a heap, bodies torn and broken before they even realized what hit them.
The third hit the wall with a wet crunch, one arm dangling uselessly by a few tendons, mouth gaping open but making no sound.
Through the haze of dust and blood, Carl moved — quick, silent, methodical.
He stepped into the smoking room, boots crunching over shattered glass, the black polymer of a stolen Shingen SMG steady in his grip.
"Three?" Carl muttered. "Thought there'd be more."
He didn't hesitate. The last wounded merc barely had time to blink before Carl put a single round into his skull, neat and surgical.
The body slumped over without a sound.
Carl exhaled slow, the barrel steaming slightly.
Two fingers to his comms bead: "All clear. They're down."
Static buzzed, then Oliver's voice cracked through, ragged with stress: "Copy that. Still pinned! There's a sniper — third floor, across the street!"
Carl's muscles tensed automatically, adrenaline sharpening his vision as he moved to the edge of the blown-out balcony. The acrid stink of burning wiring and scorched synth-flesh filled his nose.
Scanning the opposite building, he spotted it — a glint of chrome, a flash of red optics.
There. Third floor. A sniper hunched behind a shattered wall, cloak rippling slightly in the fetid wind.
A massive Nekoma Komainu Precision Rifle rested in his arms like a grim reaper's scythe.
Carl's heart skipped once.
[Nekoma 'Komainu' Precision Rifle]
A military-grade bolt-action precision weapon, firing hyper-dense tungsten slugs capable of liquefying human bone through three walls. Restricted to elite corp troops and black ops teams. If one's aimed at you, chances are you're already dead.
And this bastard wasn't just carrying heavy metal — he was wearing it.
Under the tattered urban camo cloak, Carl could spot glimmers of gleaming industrial-grade exosuit plating. Full-body armored exoframe, minimal weak points, optimized for urban combat.
"Figures," Carl muttered under his breath.
He didn't get another second to admire it.
The sniper's optics flared blood-red as they locked onto him.
Carl dove.
The balcony behind him exploded into pulverized concrete and twisted rebar as a slug the size of a soda can obliterated it in one shot, the shockwave chasing Carl like a roaring hurricane.
He hit the floor, rolled hard, tasting blood where he bit his cheek on impact.
Chunks of the ceiling rained down around him, dust thick enough to choke on.
Over comms, Jackie barked, tension bleeding through even in his forced bravado: "¡Chingón, Carl! You still breathing?!"
"Yeah. Barely."
Carl spat blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Sniper's in full corp armor," he reported, his voice tight. "Military exo, high-grade weaponry. Not some street-level choom."
Oliver cursed low, background gunfire crackling behind him. "We figured. Bastard's picking off mercs like fish in a barrel."
"Hold tight," Carl said, already moving, keeping low behind broken pillars. "I'll buy you a window."
Jackie, always trying to keep it light even when shit hit the fan, added: "Stay low. That pinche choom's got enough firepower to punch holes in the moon!"
Carl almost smirked.
Not the moon. Just me if I screw this up.
He sprinted along the cracked floor, boots hammering a desperate rhythm.
The plan was nuts. Reckless. But it was pure Night City — adapt or die.
He kept one eye on the sniper's timing — the rhythm of shots, the half-second window after each kill when the rifle cycled and the shooter reset his aim.
That's your moment, Carl.
At the next breach in the wall, Carl didn't hesitate.
He hit the jagged edge running full tilt — and jumped.
Boots scraped sparks off broken concrete as he launched himself into open air.
For a second, he was flying — a black silhouette framed against the neon-bled sky of Night City, ash and gunpowder swirling around him.
The sniper snapped his rifle up, optics burning crimson.
Carl moved faster.
In midair, he brought up his Kenshin pistol, breathing once, steady — everything else falling away.
He fired.
The pistol cracked once, sharp and brutal.