Old Vic took a sip of his now-cold coffee. Clearing his throat, he began recounting a story about an old friend.
"I'm sure Jack has already mentioned it to you. I come from the Night City Devil's Boxing Club. In Night City, boxing is a fairly popular sport. Back in my day, becoming a boxer was a golden ticket for many young people hoping to change their lives. Because of that, the boxing club became a place where countless young men came to burn off their excess energy.
That's where I met Rafael Valleot.
Rafael—now that's the name of an artist, and truth be told, he suited it.
I had just started in the boxing scene back then, determined to carve out a name for myself in the ring. Rafael and I joined the club around the same time. He came in with the same goal—to become a professional boxer. During training, we were placed in the same group.
I'll be honest, Rafael was terrible at boxing. He had a decent build, but not quite up to a boxer's standard. Every time he sparred, it only took a few punches before he was flat on the ground and couldn't get back up.
He just didn't fit in at all with the rest of the club.
Most of the guys there came straight from the streets. Their language was... let's say, colorful. Rafael was nothing like them. He never used foul language, and I don't recall ever hearing him curse at anyone.
Because of that, he couldn't connect with anyone in the club. There was nothing he shared in common with the street kids. Eventually, I was the only person in the entire club who really talked to him—probably because we trained together.
In the club, the better you fought, the more respect you earned. Rafael, well, didn't earn any. He was a fringe guy, easy to overlook. Some people even used him for laughs.
I stood up for Rafael a few times, helped him out when some punks tried to mess with him. Over time, we grew close. That's when I found out he had run away from home.
His family wasn't poor. They supported him all the way through college, and he even earned scholarships. The fallout came when he clashed with his family over what career to pursue. In a fit of anger, he left home to chase his dream.
Eventually, his family tracked him down at the club. His temper had cooled by then, so he went back with them. His boxing dream ended there. But our friendship didn't. From then on, whenever I had a match, he would always show up to cheer me on. We'd still hang out from time to time.
Rafael went back to university in Night City and studied for another two years. After graduation, he didn't cave to his father's pressure to take a corporate job. Instead, he joined the NCPD as a low-ranking patrol officer.
As for me, I started to make a name for myself in the boxing world. Rafael also climbed the ranks in the NCPD and eventually became a department head.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The night I took second place in the Watson Boxing Grand Prix, Rafael took me out to celebrate. That night, after a few drinks, he told me he had met the love of his life. You've seen her—she's the Japanese woman in the photo, Akemi Asuna.
Their marriage and having a child happened so fast it surprised everyone. Not long after that, I retired from boxing and became a full-time ripperdoc.
But good things don't always last. A few years after his daughter was born, both she and his wife disappeared.
I remember that night clearly. I was just about to close shop when Rafael stumbled into my clinic looking like a broken man. He was in tears, telling me his wife had left a letter and vanished with their daughter."
Old Vic pulled a folded piece of stationery from his notebook.
The letter was short, the handwriting messy—clearly written in a hurry.
> "My dear,
I'm sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Due to certain reasons, I have no choice but to leave you.
I don't ask for your forgiveness. I only want you to know that every day spent with you was the most beautiful experience of my life.
Now, I ask you to forget me and begin your new life."
There was no signature, just a few frantic lines drawn where a name should be.
Old Vic picked up his coffee cup again. The cold brew made him frown slightly.
"After that, Rafael disappeared for a while. When I saw him again, he was a shadow of his former self.
He gave me his diary, along with photos of his wife and daughter, asking me to do whatever I could to find them. That was the last time I ever saw Rafael.
Later, I went to NCPD to try and find out what happened. But there was nothing—no records, no trace. His coworkers just said he never showed up again after leaving work one evening."
V rubbed his cheek. "So, Old Vic, are you hoping we can confirm whether that person is really your friend's daughter?"
Old Vic gave a slight smile. "There's no rush. It's been so many years—waiting a little longer won't change much. Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see."
"True. There's barely any leads. If we want to dig into this, we'll need a different approach."
Yogan had been studying the photo for a while and finally pointed something out.
"Take a look at this. On her collar, there's a small emblem. I remember that in Japan, only powerful families have crests like these. If we can identify the family that owns this crest, we might be able to figure out who Old Vic's friend's wife really was."
Jack leaned in. "Hey, you're right. That's some sharp eyesight, man."
V squinted at the photo. It was high-res, but the emblem's design was very intricate. He couldn't make much sense of it. "What the hell is this? Looks like a leaf?"
"Maybe a maple leaf," Jack guessed.
"And what are those lines supposed to be?"
Yogan clapped his thigh. "Old Vic might actually be onto something!"
V raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Look at the top part of the emblem. It's some kind of maple leaf. And when you think of maple leaves, what comes to mind?"
"Maple syrup?" Jack offered.
"No, Jack—autumn. She's Japanese, right? In East Asian cultures, maple leaves usually symbolize autumn."
"What about the bottom part?"
"That pattern is an ancient East Asian design. It usually represents rivers—or just water. So you've got 'autumn' and 'water' together."
V pulled up a translation app and read aloud the result: "Akimizu."
Jack shook his head. "Isn't that kind of a stretch?"
Yogan shrugged. "At least it gives us a lead to follow."
V then turned to Yogan. "By the way, do you want to get a neural interface installed right now? I've already transferred the money."
Yogan had almost forgotten about that. "Right now?"
Jack chuckled. "Perfect timing, isn't it? You've got the best ripperdoc in all of Night City sitting right here. No way you're walking away from this opportunity."
V added his two cents. "It's not just about the money. Housing, medical needs, driving—NCPD will check for licenses. You won't get far in this city without implants."
Yogan thought it over.
In Night City, you couldn't do much without cybernetic implants. At the very least, a neural port would make day-to-day life much easier.
"Old Vic, I'll leave it to you."
Old Vic smiled. "No need to be so polite, kid. Come on, let's see what kind of gear you like."