"Jane… are you really free?"
"I, V, have become nothing more than an ordinary passerby in Night City."
"Damn it… I lost Johnny. Panam. Judy…"
"Yeah. I lost everything."
"Logan! Don't freaking sleep—get up and keep drinking!"
A painful buzzing echoed in Logan's head like a broken synth track.
His stomach twisted from the hangover. His temples throbbed from no sleep.
What the hell is going on?
Wasn't he writing a game guide?
Why did it feel like he had… traveled through time?
He spat out the sour, flat beer from his mouth. His blurred vision cleared—and in front of him, sitting on a paint bucket, was his so-called drinking buddy.
His buddy's military pants were sprayed with fluorescent graffiti, his prosthetic limbs tattooed with snarling, fang-filled dog heads—
Ghost Dogs?!
Suddenly, holographic text popped up in Logan's line of sight:
[Character: Jack Seno]
[Affiliation: Dog Town]
[Favorability: 40 (Liar—said yesterday we were "buddies in the same pants")]
[Development Value: If you're into rough types, go for it.]
[Stage Reward: Favorability +50 → Flesh +1, Original Sweat Military Gloves]
What the hell is this?
Logan stared blankly. His face twitched.
This panel was ridiculous.
The man in front of him had a full visor-style prosthetic eye beaming twin red lights—like a street scavenger's scrap rig. Creepy didn't even begin to cover it.
Then Logan noticed—
He was inside a moving cargo truck, closed off and filled wall-to-wall with military-grade equipment.
And Jack? His "good buddy"? Apparently, they were on escort duty… returning a truckload of dangerous goods straight into Dog Town.
Logan took a slow, steady breath. His thoughts swirled like the desert dust outside.
He glanced down—his right hand was mechanical. Controlled by nerves.
He flexed the steel palm. Tiny servos clicked and whirred.
Damn, this prosthetic feels real…
This world is real.
Wait—his status panel blinked into view:
[Name]: Logan
[Physique]: 5
[Reaction]: 3
[Technical Ability]: 1
[Intelligence]: 3
[Calmness]: 4
Okay… definitely not a protagonist.
"Still sleeping, dumbass?" Jack frowned. "Don't tell me your prosthetic's bugging out again."
He took another swig of beer. The silence between them grew thick.
"No, I just…" Logan raised his hands, surrendering. "I really can't drink anymore."
Jack snorted. "Coward."
Before he could say more—
CREEEAAAAK.
A deep metal-on-metal sound echoed inside the cargo bay.
"…What the hell?"
Logan's instincts kicked in. He grabbed the nearby rifle—his body moved on its own.
Bolt. Click. Loaded.
[Weapon Identified: Arasaka Nobu – Kinetic Assault Rifle]
Jack crouched and moved toward the noise, ready to act.
"Wait—GET BACK!" Logan shouted.
SHRRRAAAANK!
A tearing sound—steel being ripped open—wind howling in.
Emergency brake.
The entire truck jolted, tilted—
Weapons and crates slammed sideways!
"DAMN IT!"
Jack was buried in a pile of falling boxes.
Logan braced himself, elbows up, hand snapping toward the release lever.
BOOM!
The truck flipped—Logan was thrown into the air.
THUD!
He smashed into the burning asphalt, the artificial skin on his arm searing against the road.
Fractures. Internal damage. Critical pain levels.
His vision blurred. Warning signs blinked in red.
I'm gonna die…
No. WAKE UP.
A sudden surge of hormones rushed into his bloodstream.
His pain editor kicked in—snapping his senses awake.
No time to rest. This is a death game.
Logan rolled behind roadside debris. He checked the rifle, cocked it.
He peeked out—
Their convoy had been ambushed.
WHIZZZ—CRACK!
A bullet sliced past his scalp.
Target lock: enemy sniper.
Logan fired back—then dove to another rock.
In the chaos, a huge man with Contra-style hair spat and shoved a shotgun into a Ghost Dog's face.
BOOM.
He laughed. "Kill 'em all! Especially those mutts—they love biting ankles after death."
Nearby, a muscle-bound punk with oversized arms threw grenades, cheering as boxes exploded.
"Yo! The kinetic rifle ammo's still warm—my favorite model, damn it!"
Logan flinched.
Mann?!
That name hit hard—too familiar.
Bullets zipped with terrifying precision now—enemy tech clearly advanced.
Suddenly—
VRRROOOOM!!
A graffiti-covered Hellhound vehicle skidded to Logan's side. The roof gun spat fire, brass shells flying.
Inside, a bloodied man with a limp arm kicked the door open.
"Get in, dumbass! MOVE!"
Logan scrambled into the passenger seat.
Hard rock blasted from the radio as he rolled the window down.
He leaned out—rifle blazing—suppressing the looters ahead.
"GOODS!" Logan shouted.
"What?! Oh—THE GOODS?" Jack yelled over the music. "SCREW THAT! Save your own ass first!"
Fair point…
They floored it. Tires screeched. The truck drifted and bolted into the wasteland.
Jack yelled into his comms:
"Rebecca! Leaving those two idiots to you!"
"Ugh. Fine."
A girl with twin ponytails stood up on a rocky outcrop, pouting.
She lifted a railgun taller than she was.
"Guess I gotta clean up again."
Jack spotted her on the horizon, steering with one hand, arming missiles with the other.
"They wanna kill us, huh? Well—LET'S SEE WHO BLOWS FIRST!"
Target: Rebecca
[Character: Rebecca]
[Faction: Night City]
[Favorability: -10 (Wants to spit in your face)]
[Development Value: High – Potential Legend. (Want to be stronger? Want to change this broken world? Get close to her.)]
[Reward: ???]
Logan's jaw dropped.
How is she… here?
Rebecca—the legend—flesh and blood.
No time to think!
He leaned out of the window and opened fire—gunfire mixing with screaming guitars.
His barrage forced Rebecca off balance. She dodged like lightning, avoiding both bullets and missiles.
"GONNA DIE IN A MINUTE!" she shouted excitedly, spinning around to return fire.
A shot clipped their tire—sparks flew—but Jack swerved them forward, the truck dancing over the sand.
"WE'RE OUT!"
Jack laughed, half-crying.
Behind them, Rebecca stood in the clearing smoke, face covered in soot.
"DID THAT BASTARD… just wave at me?"
Her brow twitched.
"Wait… How the hell does that guy know my name?"
To be continued...