V rushed to the hospital. The moment she entered the inpatient wing, she saw Kurt Hansen and Jackie smoking in the hallway.
One sat, the other stood. Both wore grim expressions, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down like lead.
"How's Aaron?" V asked.
Kurt Hansen frowned, opened his mouth—then said nothing.
V's heart sank.
Don't tell me Aaron Wainwright is dead…
At that moment, Jackie took a deep drag, crushed the cigarette under his boot, and spoke as if bracing himself.
"V… you need to be mentally prepared. Aaron, he—"
The Heywood kid cracked before he could finish. His eyes welled up, his voice choking.
"Fuck!" V dropped onto a hospital bench.
If even Jackie was crying, then Aaron Wainwright had to be dead. No question.
Her mind went hazy. She'd seen death countless times, but someone who'd been full of life just days ago—gone in an instant—still hit hard.
Aaron was young. He had ideals.
There were so many people in this world who deserved to die—
why did it have to be him?
Just as V was spiraling, Joanne Koch came out of the ward holding a thermos. She shot V a strange look, poured herself some water, took a sip, then asked:
"You here to see the patient or just sitting here pretending to be deep and broody?
And who tossed a cigarette butt?"
See the patient?
V froze.
"Not… viewing the body?"
Joanne blinked.
"What body?"
"Didn't Aaron die?"
"He's not dead."
"Fuck!" V shot to her feet.
"Jackie! You told me Aaron was dead!"
Jackie looked utterly confused.
"Huh? When did I say that?"
V sucked in a sharp breath, pointed at Jackie, and said to Joanne:
"He dropped the cigarette butt."
"Hey! V, that's dirty!"
Ignoring Jackie's protests, V pushed open the ward door.
Aaron Wainwright was very much alive.
Xu Ling was already there, standing on a stool, unleashing a full-volume verbal assault.
"You absolute blockhead! You knew you had a match coming up and you still got into a bar fight?!
Did water get into your brain?!"
Aaron muttered weakly, "He started it…"
"You can't hold it in?! It takes two hands to clap! If you hadn't hit back, would he still chase you down?!"
Having never experienced Eastern-style education, Aaron was utterly defeated. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't articulate it. In the end, he just covered his head and accepted the scolding.
V found it funny—not because she was heartless, but because five minutes ago she'd thought Aaron was dead. Compared to that, anything was worth celebrating.
She turned to Viktor Vector.
"How bad is it?"
"Severe head trauma. Cerebral hematoma. He'll be unsteady and disoriented for a while," Viktor sighed.
"External injuries are minor, but his left cyberarm is snapped—severely damaged."
V's expression tightened.
For normal people, a broken arm meant replacement.
But Aaron wasn't normal—he was a professional boxer.
"Can it be fixed before the match?"
"Yes, but output will only be 34% of normal," Viktor explained professionally.
"The frame damage is manageable, but the short circuit fried the drive core. We can reflash it to function, but efficiency will be terrible. Best solution is a full replacement—cheaper and cleaner."
"No! I can't replace it!" Aaron shouted.
"My arm's serial number is registered. If it doesn't match, I'll be disqualified!"
"Aaron," Viktor said gently, "the Olympics aren't held only once."
"I know—but I only have this chance!"
Aaron struggled to speak.
"I'm 29. In four years I'll be 33. I might not even pass qualifiers.
Doctor Viktor… I have to move forward. There's no retreat!"
"With your condition, you can barely stand. What good is going to the Olympics like this?"
"I don't know," Aaron said firmly.
"I only know I'm a boxer. If I fall, I should fall in the ring—not in a hospital bed!"
The room fell silent again.
Everyone knew—no one could stop him.
"Fuck!" Xu Ling reached behind her waist, drew Yinglong, baring her teeth.
"I'm going to turn that Lancelot into Swiss cheese!"
"Don't."
V grabbed her, then turned to Aaron.
"Tell me what really happened. You're not reckless—why did you suddenly clash with Lancelot?"
Aaron shrank back.
"It was just a bar argument… then it escalated."
V snorted.
"Bullshit. Either talk—or I pull the Afterlife surveillance myself."
"Don't!" Aaron panicked.
"I'll talk. He insulted you. Badly. I lost it."
V froze.
"You fought… because of me?"
Aaron nodded.
"I had him. Then he activated cyberware. I wasn't ready."
"Fuck."
V snatched Yinglong from Xu Ling.
"I'm killing that bastard."
Now Xu Ling had to restrain her.
This was simple:
Lancelot insulted V → Aaron threw hands.
Normally? Whatever.
But Aaron was Night City's Olympic hope.
That made intent… suspicious.
Then commotion erupted outside.
"What now?"
Jackie whispered, "Lancelot's here."
And indeed—Lancelot arrived personally, gifts in hand, surrounded by fans with recording gear, eager to broadcast his "kind-hearted" visit.
Apologies. Medical expenses covered. Best wishes for the Olympics.
The fake concern made Xu Ling furious.
But V stayed calm.
Because she could see it clearly now.
He did it on purpose.
And enemies?
V had plenty of ways to deal with enemies.
"Mr. Lancelot," V said, "you like boxing?"
"Boxing?" Lancelot scoffed.
"That sissy sport? On the Moon we do no-holds-barred combat."
Then, faux apology:
"Oh—no offense. Just spoke my truth."
"That's fine," V smiled.
"I'm very tolerant of underclass citizens."
His face twisted instantly.
"Think before you speak," V leaned in quietly.
"So many cameras. You don't want your ugly face on tomorrow's front page."
Lancelot barely held it together.
"I challenge you, V."
"Sure."
He blinked.
"Not boxing. No rules. You dare?"
"Of course. I've fought countless no-rules matches on the street.
A ring will be refreshing."
She smiled.
"Tomorrow night. Pacifica Stadium. Media invited."
Lancelot was ecstatic.
"Tomorrow then! You're finished!"
V chuckled.
"Win or lose, my goal is simple—cripple you for life.
Go shop for a good wheelchair tonight. It's a lifetime investment."
The room went cold.
Even the fans shivered.
"Uh… friendly match, right?" one fan whispered.
"Trash talk," V laughed sweetly.
The temperature dropped further.
"President V, you really have a sense of humor," Lancelot dryly chuckled.
"I just hope your fists are better than your mouth."
With that, he turned and left, surrounded by his fans.
Standing by the door, Joanne Koch politely stepped aside to let them pass.
Once everyone had cleared the ward, V immediately crossed her arms and hissed:
"Jesus—Koch, are you sick or what? Why'd you crank the AC down so low?"
"Wasn't I just helping you sell the threat?" Joanne Koch replied, casually turning the thermostat back to normal.
"That Lancelot guy was scared stiff—his face went pale."
"Maybe he was just cold," Kurt Hansen said as he walked in.
Then he looked at V.
"Got a chance of winning?"
"I'm not answering a question that stupid," V rolled her eyes.
"Where's Jackie?"
"Outside, picking up cigarette butts."
The next day, the match proceeded as scheduled.
Pacifica Stadium was completely packed.
Hovercraft from every major SkyNet TV station filled the airspace above the arena, while inside, not a single seat was empty. Over fifty thousand spectators were present.
Of those, forty-eight thousand were V's supporters.
Lancelot had barely two thousand.
Those two thousand were herded into a separate corner section—with NCPD officers stationed beside them.
Not to keep them in line—
but to keep them alive.
River Ward was genuinely afraid Night City locals would beat those idiots to death on the spot, so a massive police presence was deployed purely for their protection.
Half an hour before the fight, the President of New Africa was still calling V.
Over the comms, he urged her to be magnanimous, not to go too far—
preferably to voluntarily concede.
New Africa would "owe her a favor."
V laughed so hard she nearly choked.
Lancelot crippled my man, and you want me to be magnanimous?
New Africa really doesn't think it's a nobody, huh.
Fine.
Great, actually.
It reminded her of the Voodoo Boys—same breed of idiots.
Figures, coming from the same shithole.
No idea when ESA planned to make their move, but whatever.
If ESA wouldn't act—
Night City would.
V smiled sweetly into the comms.
"Go fuck yourself."
The New Africa president froze.
He'd imagined countless possible responses from V.
Being cursed out—this badly—was not one of them.
"Y-you… what did you say?!"
"I said go fuck yourself!" V raised her middle finger.
"If your ears don't work, go see a doctor, you dumb, stinking old fuck!"
The president's face twisted with rage, thick lips trembling as he shouted:
"You'll regret this, V! New Africa will not tolerate such humiliation! Night City must give us an explanation!"
"Explain your mother's ass!"
"I—"
"I'm your fucking father!"
The New Africa president nearly passed out on the spot and angrily cut the call.
Can't even curse properly anymore.
Forgot their roots, these idiots.
V clicked her tongue, stretched her shoulders, and prepared to enter the arena.
Sasha came over.
"Orbital Air representatives are here. They want to speak with you."
"Tell them to get lost."
And just like that, the Orbital Air representative got escorted out.
Today, even if God himself showed up, nothing was stopping V from crippling Lancelot.
Honestly, going all out against a glorified grunt was beneath her.
But it had been a long time since she'd hated someone this much.
If she didn't do this, her thoughts wouldn't settle.
A moment later, Jackie ran over.
"Lancelot just bet 100,000 eddies on himself."
V raised an eyebrow.
"Then bet 100,000 on me winning."
Jackie left.
A bit later, he ran back again.
"He just added another 200,000 on himself."
V nearly laughed.
What was Lancelot doing—throwing a tantrum through betting?
Forget now—when she ran Arasaka 2077—
even back when she was just a street merc, she'd scraped together twenty million.
Jackie hesitated.
"Should we add another 200k? Can't lose face here."
"That's true," V nodded.
"Can't lose face."
She paused.
"But 200k's too small."
"Then how much? 300k? 500k?"
V stroked her chin, thought for a second, then said:
"Let's start with 200 million."
Jackie: "..."
Inside the locker room, Lancelot looked utterly confident, turning to the visibly nervous Orbital Air representative beside him.
"Relax," Lancelot said smugly.
"V's not as strong as people say.
One-man-versus-carrier-group? Smashing through cloud layers solo?
That kind of bullshit is obviously paid hype. Anyone who believes it is a moron."
He snorted.
"I'm the strongest among the Knights of the Round Table.
The lunar AI riot was settled by me, blade to blade.
Compared to me, V's in a whole different league—and not the good one."
"This match? I've got it in the bag."
The representative was from Night City's orbital spaceport.
He'd personally witnessed many of V's feats.
But the previous representative had already been reassigned to ticket checking after repeatedly trying to talk sense into Lancelot.
This one liked his office job and had no desire to scan tickets—
so he wisely kept his mouth shut.
Lancelot was very satisfied with how obedient he was.
As he warmed up, Lancelot casually asked:
"Oh, right. I added another 200k. Did V follow?"
"She did."
"How much?"
"Two hundred million."
Clang!
Lancelot slipped and crashed flat onto his back.
He scrambled up in a panic, voice shrill as he shouted:
"How much?!"