Half an hour later, the subway rolled into the Night City district. Surrounded by a sea of blue, Li Pan was in high spirits, humming "One shot to blow your head clean off" as he stepped out of the station.
At the station exit, Night City Police Authority officers—NCPA—stood in formation like they were enforcing martial law, coffee cups in hand, wearing ballistic armor and bristling with weapons. Behind all manner of shades and cybernetic eyes, they glared sideways at every piece of social trash arriving from the slums.
If they found someone delinquent on taxes, breaking the law, or wanted with a bounty on their head—and stupid enough to stroll into the city center—they'd be instantly locked onto by a dozen smart weapons, riddled with bullets until their five limbs were smashed to pieces, cuffed by the neck, and hauled off in a garbage bag.
Li Pan, however, had no trouble. After all, he was blue-blue-blue—his mental health certificate so clean even he believed it. And even if the subway's subnet CCTV caught him shooting someone, so what? Self-defense. These days, no proper taxpayer rode the free public subway. And if you didn't pay taxes and had no insurance, the Safety System wouldn't even report it. No report, no performance bonus—so why would a cop making 5,000 a month care if you lived or died?
Bottom line: in a place like Night City, it was hard to live as a saint.
Before crossing over, Li Pan had been a timid shut-in. In his old world, staying home kept him alive. In this one, that was impossible—first, because you couldn't make money holed up inside; second, because in any world, failure to adapt meant being eliminated. After losing a hand and taking society's beating, Li Pan had completely parted ways with his past life's cowardly kindness.
Still, his old self wasn't entirely useless. Years of first-person shooters and online tournaments had left him with a trace of shooting talent—something he'd carried into this life.
And on Earth 0791, guns weren't banned. Armed with that smidge of skill, an heirloom "All-Night" pistol dug out of his home, and—most important—the military-grade ballistic co-processing unit built into the illegal prosthetic arm he'd salvaged from a junkyard veteran, Li Pan wasn't invincible, but he could at least crush the drugged-out punks hogging subway seats. That alone saved him the cost of a car—free public transit, any time.
That tiny scrap of combat ability was also why he'd even qualified for his latest job interview.
"Logistics management intern, huh? I thought it'd be an office gig—rented a damn suit for nothing. Turns out it's just warehouse guard duty…"
The man towering over him was two meters tall, alloy from head to toe, even his skull replaced. He ignored the complaint and tossed Li Pan the employee handbook, uniform, and hard hat.
"Be grateful. If your old man hadn't saved my life in the field, I wouldn't have recommended you. This is real corporate work—comes with social insurance."
Li Pan shrugged into the coveralls. "Gotta thank my dad for being a medic…"
In this life, Li Pan was a textbook war orphan. Both parents had been soldiers—on this world, the only way an ordinary person could get a low-interest student loan was to serve first and earn citizenship. Unfortunately, they'd run straight into the Corporate War.
In a multiversal war on this scale, millions per second vanished into the light of positron ship guns. His parents were no exception—turned to stardust, perhaps not even in this universe's sky.
In a way, he had the corporations to "thank." The war-orphan loan that had paid for his studies and apartment had been bought with their lives. Of course, loans had to be repaid—starting immediately after graduation.
Ha. As if a corporation would give you free money. The fact it was interest-free was generosity enough.
Takamagahara might be bankrupt, but Night Konzern still paid those benefits—mainly to avoid pissing off veterans and driving them into the arms of Akainu recruiters. Like the alloy giant in front of him.
This man's body was bulked out with military-grade prosthetics, ceramic ballistic plating under cheap synthskin, bones replaced with alloy. A gorilla in human form.
He was likely a SPACEMARINE in his service days—storming orbital stations, classic cannon fodder. His original body probably blown to scraps before Li Pan's father dragged him back and got him rebuilt into a cyborg.
He'd even dodged the final annihilation of Takamagahara's fleet. Now, riding his military body into a cushy corporate post, he was just one promotion and a raise away from CEO, wealth, and women. Lucky bastard.
Whatever he'd just said didn't matter—Li Pan had shotgun-blasted his résumé to every contact in his parents' address book.
"Come on. Let's get you in the system, walk the warehouse, and by the way—your mental assessment's clean?"
"Blue as the Pacific."
"Whatever. Just remember—this company's from offworld. The warehouse is high-security. Contraband inside. Always keep your gun handy. The Maelstrom punks have been scouting—no telling when they'll hit."
So that was it—the alloy giant knew the warehouse was in Maelstrom's sights. Facing a serious threat, he'd recruited a shooter in a hurry. At least Li Pan was his old comrade's son, fresh out of school, not a gangbanger. Someone he could trust.
Sure, 2,500 a month to risk his life against Maelstrom was low pay—but it came with insurance, meant a bump in his credit limit, and offered night-shift bonuses. Li Pan decided it was worth it. Loan payments came first.
They toured the warehouse—layout, shift times, patrol routes—then had Li Pan snap off a few cans to test his draw. Satisfied, the giant brought him into the company's subnet as a temp.
Except… something went wrong. Whether it was his nine-blue mental rating or something else, the login failed.
The giant made an encrypted call, then sent Li Pan an e-card from an account labeled "Bear."
TheM Company.
Easy enough to remember.
"No problem. Probably a security patch to keep Maelstrom hackers out. You're approved—go to HQ, see HR, and register as a trainee. Three-year internship, but with salary and insurance. Process your hire, then come straight to the night shift. One more gun can't hurt."
"Got it, Bear! I've been wanting to deal with those Maelstrom scum anyway."
At least the suit rental hadn't gone to waste—fifty creds a week.
The warehouse was in the outskirts; the office was downtown.
Good thing he'd shaved his head, worn the suit and tie. Otherwise, walking into the corporate park while everyone else rode floatcars, the security drones might have blown him away at the gate.
Luck was with him—scan confirmed his mental cert and M Company intern clearance. No more security bots in his way. The place was swanky—HQ sat in a corporate park guarded by CSI—Citizen Safety Insurance, a heavy-hitting private security firm with no ties to Night Konzern or Takamagahara. A neutral zone, safe from either side's lunatic raids.
With corporate clearance, he found the twin-tower complex easily. Past a cathedral-like marble lobby, guided by an android receptionist, into an elevator larger than his apartment—soaring skyward until it reached M Company's business department in Tower A.
He switched to panoramic mode—clouds below, skyborne cities weaving past, the Pacific under Night City's colossal shadow. He swallowed hard.
"Smoother than diarrhea…"
Ding.
"You have arrived: M Company, Business Department."
He straightened his tie and stepped out—onto plush carpet. Real fur? Extravagant. Real plants in pots? Extravagant.
Mouth hanging open, he strolled into reception. The place was vast—round lobby big enough for a five-man bombball match. Eleven closed doors ringed the space, each likely leading to different departments.
The central reception desk… empty. Not even an android.
No network signal.
In this era, every citizen was connected to the Public Safety Net, life tied to the QVN—Quantum Virtual Network—that linked the multiverse. Being cut off meant being crippled.
For security, big corps never put all their data online, keeping private systems and intranets. Clearly, M Company had screened out the public net here.
"…Hello? I'm here to start work."
No net meant he couldn't call Bear. He tried calling out. Waited. Nothing.
Half an hour later, he was tempted to leave, maybe check the lobby downstairs.
"Hello? Anyone? Hello?"
He didn't dare kick doors—risk of security bots shooting him—so he peeked behind reception.
A phone.
He rubbed his eyes. A desk phone. A rotary desk phone.
In this age of implanted comm chips, hardly anyone even knew what one was. If he hadn't been a transmigrant, he might not have recognized it.
Then—Riiiiing.
He scratched his ear. Riiiiing.
It was definitely ringing.
A desk phone… ringing without a line? Maybe a retro-styled comm unit? Rich-people nonsense.
He picked it up, glancing around for cameras.
"Hello, M Company? I'm here for the job—Bear called ahead, right? Some kind of test?"
A familiar voice answered:
"Take the phone. Come in."
A door opened.
"Hello? Who are you? What's with the secrecy? Do I leave my gun at reception?"
"…leave my gun at reception…"
Only his own voice echoed back. Whoever it was had cut the line. He hung up, phone still in hand, and walked through the open door—then froze.
The voice… had been his own.
Voiceprint imitation? Definitely a test. HR probably had hackers dig through his whole life, making sure they weren't hiring a spy. Paranoid corporate dogs.
Phone in hand, he stepped into darkness. The corridor beyond felt endless, walls and glass gone, only faint lights above—like stars guiding him through the void.
Maybe it was just an illusion, but it felt bigger than the building itself.
He shook it off. He'd seen plenty of alien-world black tech—Earth 0791 was just one of hundreds of superior Earths. Nothing to be shocked about.
Following the lights, he reached the end.
A door: General Manager's Office.
What, the GM personally interviews warehouse interns?
"Good day, Manager, I'm Li Pan."
He knocked lightly; the door swung open.
Inside—just like in a drama. Big office. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the other tower, bridge, restaurant, pool. All normal.
"Manager?"
The chair behind the desk faced the window. Empty.
"What the hell…?"
Riiiiing.
"What the hell?"
The voice on the phone—his own—spoke:
"Pick up the nameplate. Pin it to your suit."
Nameplate?
On the desk—a card, poker-sized.
TheM Company
Earth 0791 Branch
General Manager
Li Pan
Extension 0791001
What? This was getting ridiculous. Some reality-show scam? Hand a poor man millions, film him "living the life," then take it back and leave him in debt?
The voice droned on:
"The General Manager has access to all rooms.
The General Manager may use the file cabinets.
The General Manager may use the fax.
The General Manager may use the desk phone.
The General Manager may order custom suits.
The General Manager may turn off the lights…"
"What the hell is this? I came to watch a warehouse, not be GM! Try to mess with me and I'll wreck your—"
The voice ignored him:
"When the General Manager is deleted, the position passes to the next regular employee.
When all regular employees are deleted, the position passes to an intern.
When all employees are deleted, the GM is chosen at random from the street.
TheM—Monster Company—cannot be without a General Manager."
"…cannot be without a General Manager…"
This time, the echo came from Li Pan's own mouth.
"Wait. Deleted—as in dead? Then Bear…"
He tried pulling up Bear's contact—but it was gone.
Deleted.
The voice—his voice—spoke flatly:
"TheM, Earth 0791 Branch: All regular employees have been deleted.
By succession, sole intern Li Pan is now acting General Manager.
Pick up the nameplate. Pin it to your suit."
.
.
.
⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
The system says: Kill.Mercs obey. Corporates obey. Monsters obey.One man didn't.
🧠💀 "I'm not a cyberpsycho. I just think... differently."
💥 High-voltage cyberpunk. Urban warfare. AI paranoia.Read 30 chapters ahead, only on Patreon.
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