Riku darted through the alleyways, quickly emerging onto the street.
This place was a total dump. Along the way, he passed plenty of homeless folks curled up in dark corners. Maybe the overpowering scent of fresh blood on him was too much, because no one else was dumb enough to try picking a fight with him this time.
Or maybe it was the two guns strapped visibly to his body, screaming "don't mess with me."
"Dios mío, choom, did you just crawl out of a bloodbath or what?"
As soon as Riku hit the main street, still adjusting to the blinding neon lights, someone called out to him.
"You're looking pretty badass, but on Valentino turf? Careful, they might take you for a demon and flatline you."
Before Riku could respond, the guy kept talking, acting like they were old pals.
"And you are…?"
Riku lowered his gaze to the guy chatting him up, squinting. His heart skipped a beat—something about this felt familiar. Exaggerated vest, shiny gold cyberware, gaudy jewelry, and tattoos of Santa Muerte and Jesus Christ. The dude looked straight out of a Mexico City barrio.
But what really caught Riku's eye was the hairstyle. A Latino rocking a ginkgo-shaped topknot, like a samurai from Japan.
"Hey, choom, this is the Coyote Cojo, and you don't know me?" the guy said, his expression over-the-top, clearly a few drinks deep, joking around with Riku.
Riku glanced around. Sure enough, he was standing next to a bar with a strong Latin vibe—Wild Dog Bar, or Coyote Cojo.
"What, people still buy into that stuff?" Riku asked, relaxing a bit. He'd clocked the guy's identity: Jackie Welles, the "junior boss" of Coyote Cojo.
"Shh, choom, don't say that too loud. With your look, someone might actually shoot you," Jackie said, making a hush gesture. He clearly didn't care much himself, though.
The guy was sprawled on the steps outside the bar, surrounded by a few empty bottles, looking like he was living his best life. Good thing he was the "junior boss" here, or he'd probably have been kicked out ages ago.
"How much have you had, man?" Riku said, shaking his head. Not wanting to deal with a drunk, he stepped past Jackie, pulled open the door to Coyote Cojo, and walked inside.
The sky was already lightening outside. For safety, Riku wasn't about to go hunting for a place to crash. He'd hole up here during the day and head out again at night. Pay for a drink, sit all day—who's gonna kick him out of a bar? Worst case, he'd toss some extra eddies their way. No way they'd turn that down.
Inside, Riku grabbed a random seat. The bar was nearly empty—only four or five patrons left. The bartender was idly wiping glasses, looking bored. This time of morning, right before dawn, was the deadest hour for a place like this. The all-nighters had already cleared out.
Even with so few people, Riku could feel eyes on him. Subtle glances kept flicking his way.
Fair enough—his look was a bit much. Sporting a pair of obvious goat horns? No wonder people thought he was some kind of devil.
Of course, in this day and age, no one would actually think he was a demon. They'd just assume he modded himself to look like this on purpose. In Night City, with its seven million-plus people, a couple of weirdos slapping goat horns on their heads wasn't even news.
But getting horns and waltzing into Valentino territory? That was practically begging for trouble. It was like spitting on the Valentinos' turf—and they did not take kindly to that.
The Valentinos were all about tradition and culture. That was their foundation. Sure, stuff like "Jesus Christ" didn't have much pull anymore, but it was still baked into their identity. Just look at their gear—religious accessories and tattoos everywhere. They might not follow the old doctrines, but the cultural weight was still there.
The Valentinos leaned hard into that shared heritage, binding their gang tightly to the local Latino community. They put down roots, spread out, and welcomed anyone who respected their ways, turning their turf into an ironclad stronghold. The community's loyalty shielded the gang—cops or corpos trying to infiltrate got nowhere. In return, the Valentinos protected the neighborhood.
"This is Heywood, Valle Vista, Valentino territory. God might not be in charge, but you'd better show some respect," a guy slurred, stumbling over to Riku's table. His clothes screamed Chicano culture, and he was clearly drunk, pointing and jabbering.
"…"
Riku was speechless. He hadn't expected someone to actually come stir up trouble. Jackie was right—Heywood folks didn't mess around.
But it's not like he chose to look like this. How was he supposed to explain that?
The silence made things awkward. The drunk guy, clearly not a fan of being ignored, got more agitated. Drunks don't care about your side of the story—they just feel disrespected.
"Speak, you mute or something?" the guy snapped, leaning on the table, getting in Riku's face. His boozy breath was so strong it almost overpowered the meaty human scent. Almost. It was like a weird mix—kinda "intoxicating," like drunken shrimp or crab. Tempting, in a way.
"I didn't mean any disrespect," Riku said, swallowing hard. His hand brushed the SMG at his side. His pistol was out of ammo, but the SMG still had some.
"Hey, choom, give me some face. No trouble in the Coyote Cojo," Jackie called out, stumbling over to pull the drunk away.
As the "junior boss" of the bar, Jackie had enough clout to defuse things. The drunk muttered something about "disrespecting our traditions" but followed Jackie off, still grumbling.