"Huff… huff… huff…"
"Manager, Manager, we've arrived."
"Hm? Oh, oh."
Woken up by Ah Qi, Li Pan rubbed his face.
"You guys wait in the car. Follow my instructions and be ready."
He picked up the suitcase holding the spines, jumped down from the hover-car, and darted across illegal rooftops and narrow walkways, avoiding the streets. Pedestrians stared at him like he was crazy as he finally dropped down onto the filthy street.
This was the so-called Commuter Zone.
Back in New Tokyo's era, it used to be a near-suburban urban village—a hub of metro and bus lines. Six adjacent blocks packed with salarymen, small industrial workers, and freelancers. Tiny single-room houses, low-end apartments, pigeonhole towers. Population density was extreme, and once, it had been a thriving district.
Now the economy had tanked. Corporations, factories, the military—everywhere was laying off staff. Still, the residents here were once middle class. Citizens with savings. Even unemployed, they could run food stalls, stream online, or find some other way to survive. They didn't collapse like the Outer Ring industrial ghettos. With geography and sheer numbers on their side, commuting from here was convenient, and the metro was always bursting. Li Pan had even considered renting a place here. About 10,000 a month. A dream, but just a thought.
Of course, no place in Night City was safe.
This zone was one of the fiercest for gang turf wars—six gangs across six blocks. Still, since it was home to working-class bees, even the Ye Clan, Takamagahara, Akainu, or Cerberus wouldn't go full war mode here. Killing off tax-paying worker ants wasn't profitable. So the fighting usually stayed at low-intensity—assassinations, not military-grade weapons.
As soon as he switched on the comms glasses Shiba had rigged, chatter filled his ear.
Shiba-18:
"He was sleeping with his eyes open. Gross…"
Rama:
"I thought his nose was clogged. Kinda freaked me out…"
"Oi! Don't badmouth your boss on comms! Shiba, keep watch. If anyone dares hack me, fry their brain immediately. No mercy!"
Shiba-18:
"Yeah, yeah, nag nag nag…"
Tch. That brat was anything but cute.
Li Pan pushed through the crowds to a commercial street, found a Chinese diner—Peace Hotel. Under its sign, an old man in glasses, prosthetic leg, tank top and sandals, was keeping the books.
"Old Wu. Business seems good."
The old man peered at him.
"Oh, Broomhead. Shaved it off, huh? Didn't come work for me, went to wear a corporate dogskin instead? Pity. You were good at gutting fish."
"Heh, your 'fish' gave me nightmares."
"Anyway. I'm here to borrow your place for a business talk."
"Fine. You know the rules."
"Cut me a break. Call you uncle?"
"Sure. Call me uncle and I'll throw in a basket of dumplings. But business is business."
"Deal! Let's do it."
Li Pan transferred 20,000 in cash. Not for dumplings.
Old Wu was like Pastor—a middleman. In Night City, no one trusted a deal without a broker to keep it clean. Especially here in the Commuter Zone—Night City's biggest gang black market. All gangs had shops here. No one wanted bloodshed to hurt profits.
Li Pan knew Peace Hotel well. He'd worked in its kitchen. It was neutral ground—meals first, violence outside. Even gangs had to eat.
He waited in a private room, finished the dumplings in a few bites. Soon, a cheongsam-clad robot waitress brought in two guests.
One black, one white. The black man had a gorilla prosthetic arm, chest tattooed with a war crest—ex-marine, fallen into gang life. The white man wore glasses, addict's needle marks on his neck, but still functioning. Both clearly came to inspect goods.
Li Pan didn't chat. He opened the suitcase of harvested spines while he ate.
The organs could be scanned, but the spinal enhancements needed testing. The white guy pulled out instruments, scanning, eyes glowing as he secretly chatted with the black man.
Li Pan wasn't worried. The goods were real, quality guaranteed. He shoveled down food while they checked. Finally, the black man nodded, pulled out a black credit chip.
"All of it. Flat price: two million."
Market rate, sure. Virtual currency only, of course. Black market rules. The chip held a mix of crypto—worth between 500k and 4M depending on exchange. Standard practice was to peg the median, so two million was fair.
Li Pan was about to accept when Shiba whispered in his ear. He smirked.
"Not enough."
The black man frowned.
"Two million's not enough?"
"You think I don't know? QVN's down. Virtual coins are gonna crash. That two million might be worthless soon."
The black man hesitated.
"Then what? Barter? You know what we deal in. Combat stimulants?"
Li Pan slurped broth over his rice.
"Enhancers that turn you into cyberpsychos? No thanks. I'll take currency. But given the market risk—I want ten million."
"That's too much."
But he didn't walk away. Which meant—negotiable. Li Pan pressed.
"You came to me, desperate to dump those dirty coins before they rot. Laundering isn't easy. Too much at once, you trip the Tax Bureau. Better to convert now. My goods are solid—you won't lose. No laundering costs, no risk. Ten million's cheap. You profit, I bleed."
The black man's eyes flashed—linking with his boss. Finally, he nodded. He slotted the chip, waited, then handed it back. Now it held a whole spread of illegal currencies, total value anywhere from two to twenty million.
"Good. Transaction complete. Deliver the shipment."
Meanwhile, Li Pan's hover-truck offloaded the crates at the gang's warehouse. Smooth. No double-cross. No bloodshed.
Satisfied, Li Pan stood, belly full, and left Peace Hotel.
"Alright, everyone. Profit split: I'm General Manager, so I take half. The rest split evenly. Kotarō gets a share too. Any objections?"
Ah Qi and Rama had none. Shiba calculated.
"Base it on ten million?"
"Don't dream. We'll launder first. After washing costs, and 10% for Shiba's cut as operator, the rest is team revenue. Anyone who doesn't want cash can arrange with Shiba directly. Agreed?"
Shiba: "Works."
Kotaro privately confirmed too.
"Good. That's the rule. Teamwork gets paid, freeloaders get nothing. Meeting adjourned. You three head back, file reports. I'll check on… a certain monster."
After all, he'd borrowed the company car for a private job. Better show some "official business" too.
So he went to a real estate agency in the Commuter Zone.
"A haunted house? In this day and age? Only 2,000 a month? Not a scam?"
The agent sighed.
"Mr. Li, you think I wouldn't charge more if I could? Fourteen tenants dead. Not gang hits—no suspects on camera. Jumps, wrists slit, pills swallowed. One week, tops. Neither landlord nor property management care. It's always us agents cleaning the mess. I advise you—cheap means cursed."
Li Pan admitted, the man was right. He stepped inside the old 7-story apartment block. Location was decent—worth 8k a month normally. Security at the entrance. No junkies around. But the complex was smothered by towering high-rises. No sunlight. Dark and damp. Especially the infamous "haunted" unit, end of the 7th floor corridor. No lights. Oppressive.
Inside, four bedrooms, two living, two baths. Perfectly symmetrical—like a mirror cut down the center. Too symmetrical. Eerie.
"Who was the first to die here?"
"Who knows? Death is nothing rare in Night City. But three suicides in a row—that drew attention. Out that window."
Li Pan peered down. Seven stories. With modern prosthetics, even a fall like that shouldn't kill… unless.
"Can I try living here one night?"
"Mr. Li, please don't make this harder…"
Li Pan slipped him 100 credits.
"Here's the keycard."
Tch. Probably won't get reimbursed… Still, the apartment was huge. Spacious, convenient, rooftop perfect for a floater landing. And at 2k a month? Even as a warehouse, worth it.
"Damn! Amazing. Only 6,000? Jackpot!"
…Huh?
From the balcony, he spotted another agent leading clients inside. Of course. The landlord was desperate. And—yep—the agent was quoting 6,000.
"Sir, you are—?"
"You're too late. I already—"
"Eh!? You!" The female client jumped.
"That suit—you're the guy from last night!"
Li Pan froze. Looked closer. "Oh. You again, little wildcat."
"Who—who's a wildcat! What the hell are you doing here? Stalker!?"
It was her. The goth rocker girl from the park. Today, fully different—thick makeup, blonde wig, trendy outfit, perfume. Li Pan barely recognized her.
"Hell no. I rented this already. Six thousand? Agent, you didn't explain properly."
The agent sweated.
But the girl's eyes flashed, pulling housing data.
"Wait—wait! The listing isn't even on record yet! You haven't signed anything! I'll rent it first!"
"Hey, you idiot! It's cursed! People die here!"
But she snorted.
"So what? People die every day in Night City. Six thousand? I'll take it!"
Li Pan pressed his Black Kite pistol to the agent's temple.
"You dare?"
The poor man nearly cried.
"Hey! You can't just—" The girl clawed at him. "I finally found a cheap place! At this price I'd be stuck in the Industrial Zone! You want me living with the Vortex Gang!?"
"Tch…" Li Pan's head ached.
The agent, sweating bullets, stammered:
"Uh, since you two… know each other… and it's a double suite… why not co-rent?"
The girl blinked. "Co-rent?"
"Yes! Share rent, cheaper. Just—1…"
Li Pan jabbed the pistol.
"Say it!"
"One thousand! Each! The landlord… dropped price again! One thousand a month!"
"Holy shit! One thousand in the Commuter Zone! Hahaha! I'm in!" She jumped, hugging Li Pan's neck.
"Not about money… okay fine, it IS about money…"
Li Pan tried one last protest.
"Oi, Wildcat. You trust living with a stranger?"
She squinted at him.
"You're not one of those organ-selling psychos, right?"
"…N-no. I'm a legit company employee. Here's my business card."
She laughed, stuck out her hand.
"Good! Then we're roommates. I'm Nana—Fuyama Nana. Call me Xiao Qi."
Li Pan stiffened. Deep breath. Kept a serious face. Shook her hand.
"…I'll call you Miss Fuyama. Pleased to meet you."
.
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⚠️ 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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