"Since you already know that much," Takemura said at last, his voice steady but eyes reflecting fatigue older than his body, "there's no point in hiding anything from you."
He clasped his hands together, sitting straight as always—a soldier even when stripped bare. "At first, I never intended to seek your help. My plan was to find Anders Hellman—the engineer behind the Relic project—and use him as a starting point."
Neo listened in silence, watching the flicker of light from Viktor's monitors dance across Takemura's rebuilt eyes.
"Hellman," Takemura continued, "was not just the Relic's designer. He also took part in several of Arasaka's classified projects. Among Saburo's scientists, he was one of the few whose talent was matched only by his arrogance. Saburo valued him highly… and Yorinobu loathed him for it."
He gave a small, tired smile. "In short, Hellman was one of the few people close enough to the Arasaka heir to leave a crack in the armor."
Neo's tone was cool. "But you never found him."
Takemura exhaled through his nose. "No. I searched for days, following every whisper, every rumor… nothing. He vanished without a trace."
"I need time to gather what I can," Takemura said, standing suddenly. "Once I have a solid plan, I'll contact you. Will that suffice?"
"Sure," Neo said, flipping a page in the auto mag. "Go do your homework, old dog. Call me when you've got something worth swinging at."
Takemura hesitated, then instinctively started to bow again—deep, formal, ninety degrees.
Neo waved him off, exasperated. "Cut it out, Takemura. You bow any lower and Vik's gonna have to fit you with a new spine."
Takemura straightened immediately, smiling faintly. "Understood, Neo. Then I'll take my leave. Viktor-san—my thanks once again."
And with that, the samurai slipped out of the clinic, his footsteps fading into the hum of Night City beyond.
...
As the door slid shut behind him, Viktor began tidying up the surgical tools, muttering, "That one's a dying breed. Loyal to a fault. It's almost tragic."
He shook his head, sighing. "Men like that—willing to bleed for a man like Saburo Arasaka. You gotta ask yourself, was it ever worth it?"
Neo leaned back on the couch, arms folded behind his head. "Blind loyalty. That's what keeps the machine running, Vik. You need dogs like him in every empire. Someone who obeys without asking why. Takemura just had the bad luck to serve a devil who fancied himself a god."
He stretched, bored already. "But enough philosophy. Too much talk about loyalty makes me itch."
Viktor smirked. "So what now? You gonna go hunt another conspiracy, or maybe, just maybe, take a damn day off?"
Neo grinned. "Thinking of finding some fun."
"Fun?" Viktor chuckled. "You're talking to the wrong doc, choom. I don't exactly stock the kind of recreational services you're hinting at."
Neo rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'm not talking about chrome dolls or joytoys. I walk the fine line, Vik—pleasure and peace, body and mind."
"High EQ version: relaxation and balance," he added dryly. "Low EQ version: the girls in this city still look too synthetic for my taste."
Viktor barked a laugh. "You want to unwind? Try the ring. Nothing clears your head like punching something till it stops moving."
Neo tilted his head. "You think anyone would actually step into the ring with me?"
Viktor paused. "...Fair point. The moment they saw your face, half the underground circuit would fake a seizure just to get out of it."
Neo smirked. "Exactly. Handling cyberpsychos is MaxTac's job, not mine."
Then Viktor's gaze flicked to the magazine still in Neo's hands—its cover gleaming with the image of a sleek, chrome-plated motorcycle. "How about racing?" he suggested. "Out in the Badlands. There are street races every week—dust, speed, the whole adrenaline therapy package. Clears the mind real good."
Neo's eyes lingered on the image of the machine.
Badlands. Races. Speed.
And maybe, if the winds were right—Panam.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah," he said finally. "That might just be what I need."
...
The next day, the Rayfield flagship showroom in Corpo Plaza was a cathedral of wealth and glass.
Neo didn't even blink as he dropped a fat credchip on the counter. "Rayfield Galatine S9 'Avalon," he said. "Full package. No mods."
The clerk nearly choked. Most people financed these bikes for years—Neo just bought one, cash.
By the time the paperwork was processed, the staff were practically bowing him out the door.
He swung his leg over the bike and thumbed the ignition. The engine roared to life like a dragon waking from slumber. The whole frame vibrated under him, a symphony of power and precision.
The exhaust flared white-blue, and the dashboard lights danced to life.
It didn't just move—it sang.
As he revved the throttle, the engine's scream echoed down the streets of Corpo Plaza like a blade being unsheathed.
"Name fits," Neo murmured. "Feels like riding a damn sword."
He tore down the maglev lanes toward Heywood, the city lights blurring into streaks of molten color.
Traffic parted before him, cars flickering past like shadows as the Rayfield carved through the neon haze—swift, fluid, unstoppable.
When he finally slowed, the wild hum of the engine faded into the soft pulse of a nearby bar sign—El Coyote Cojo. The Wild Wolf.
Perfect.
He pulled up, the tires hissing against the curb, and hit his comm.
"Jackie," he said. "You got ten minutes. Bring your Arch to the Wolf Bar."
On the other end of the line came a sleepy groan, then—
"¡Chingada madre! That sound—was that a Rayfield Galatine S9 'Avalon? The new line?"
Neo smirked. "Yeah."
"Dios mio…" Jackie's tone changed instantly. "You're already in Heywood? Say no more, hermano. I'm on my way!"
The line clicked off, and ten minutes later, a familiar roar split the night. Jackie Wells pulled up beside him, his Arch glowing like molten chrome.
He whistled low. "Man, that ride of yours… it's sexy."
Neo tilted his head toward the open road beyond the district walls. "You in for a race?"
Jackie grinned, eyes gleaming. "Heh. Thought you'd never ask, mano."
Two engines flared. Two trails of fire cut through the neon.
And as the city fell away behind them, the night opened wide—an endless stretch of desert asphalt and starlight.
For once, no corps, no contracts, no conspiracies.
Just the roar of the wind.
And the sound of two brothers chasing freedom in the dark.