The blond young man's name was Oliver—Oliver Winry. Everyone in 6th Street knew him. It wasn't hard to see why. Once an unremarkable member
The blond young man's name was Oliver—Oliver Winry.
Everyone in 6th Street knew him.
It wasn't hard to see why. Once an unremarkable member of the gang, this young man had since risen to become one of Night City's top mercs—his name echoed through the city's underground like thunder.
Oliver...
That name surfaced in the minds of every 6th Street member present as they took in the sight before them—Oliver standing on the upper level, pressing down a gunman's arm.
Their eyes landed on the Kenshin pistol in the gunman's hand. They were all seasoned gang veterans, forged in the chaos of the streets. It took them only a glance to recognize where that bullet had been aimed.
If Oliver hadn't intervened, that shot would've flown straight into Nottingham Winry's back.
Right into the back of the only man left in 6th Street with the legitimacy to challenge Will Cannon for leadership—who had just moments ago declared he held evidence of Rick's true killer.
Will Cannon felt the change immediately. The gazes around him turned sharper, colder. What had once been vague suspicion toward him now solidified into near-certainty.
Everyone knew it—Will had the most to gain from Rick's death. And now, with Nottingham about to expose evidence... suddenly a gunman fires? Really?
Sure, some might've done the same in Will's shoes. That was how the underworld worked. But this? This was too crude. Too obvious.
If the shot had landed, if Nottingham had died on the spot, maybe people would've shrugged it off. A few murmurs of regret, a couple of nods, and then business as usual. Will Cannon would've taken over—no reason to make trouble over a corpse.
But Nottingham didn't die.
Now, the balance had shifted.
And people began asking themselves—why were they backing Will? Was he more respected than Nottingham? More disciplined? More senior?
Not really.
And then there was Oliver.
Many eyes flicked toward him again.
This guy was no amateur. No one had even seen him move. When had he arrived? How had he managed to appear on the second floor in time to stop the shot?
Rumor had it he rolled with KK. 6th Street might not be afraid of one merc, even KK—but that didn't mean they liked the idea of a potential war.
Still... Oliver wasn't just some outsider.
He used to be one of them. And more importantly—he was Nottingham Winry's son.
That gave them all pause.
Will's attempt had failed. His shooter had been effortlessly stopped. And now the energy in the room leaned heavily toward Nottingham's side. Those who had feared Will's goons in the barn now realized... if Oliver was this capable, maybe Will's men couldn't do much to stop him.
"Oliver, bring that man down."
An older high-ranking member of 6th Street finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. His hair was streaked with white, and there was an unshakable authority in his posture. He looked at the frozen shooter, then at Oliver.
"We all saw what he tried to do. We all know what he was aiming for. I'm asking you to bring him down so we can sort this out properly."
Oliver looked at the old man—someone he knew. One of his father's longtime friends. Someone he used to call "uncle." If he was asking, there was no reason to refuse.
Silently, Oliver moved his hands, placing them gently on the shooter's shoulders.
Fwoosh.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
The 6th Street higher-ups blinked again—and Oliver was standing on the ground floor, the shooter in tow.
Sandevistan.
Will Cannon's pupils shrank as he watched Oliver close the distance. They were now just five meters apart.
If it weren't for his remaining self-control, he might've drawn his weapon right then and there.
So that's how he reached the second floor in an instant...
Among 6th Street's leadership, the Sandevistan wasn't rare. The Tyger Claws used it plenty. But that's exactly why they understood how difficult it was to master.
Oliver had just used it twice in quick succession—and he looked fine. No fatigue, no breathlessness, no visible strain. His adaptability to the system was far above average. He could probably use it several more times without breaking a sweat.
Honestly?
He could probably kill every gang leader in the room if he wanted to.
So this is what one of Night City's top mercs looks like...
The few who still supported Will Cannon went silent.
They'd been ready to challenge Oliver for showing up uninvited at a leadership vote.
But now, after seeing the power difference firsthand, and with Nottingham's legitimacy rising while Will stumbled, their minds shifted.
Maybe Nottingham should be boss.
After all, what did this fight have to do with them? Supporting Will or Nottingham—what difference did it make, really?
Backing the winner was the smarter move. That meant wider horizons and smoother roads ahead.
Nottingham wasn't a bad guy. Honest. Competent. And as for Will... well, he'd failed to silence his rival and was running out of cards.
Some of the more cunning leaders were already stepping back.
They could see where this was headed.
Just as the elder who had spoken to Oliver stepped forward to examine the motionless shooter—
Will Cannon made his move.
He strode forward, and under Oliver's steady gaze, drew a tactical knife from his belt and stabbed the shooter in the heart.
It wasn't a lightning-fast move. Oliver could've stopped it.
But he didn't.
He simply watched.
"A damn Tyger Claw spy," Will growled. "Trying to disrupt the meeting."
He spoke quickly, defining the narrative before anyone else could.
All the while, he kept his eyes on Oliver, waiting—watching—for any reaction.
But Oliver said nothing.
He just stood there.
And at that moment, Will Cannon felt the final weight drop in his gut.
Nottingham really does have the evidence that I killed Rick.
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