It didn't make sense. Someone with his looks should have been a protagonist, yet here he was, flipping synthetic flatbreads in a gutter.
Kael's eyes were vacant, his thoughts drifting through the neon-soaked haze of Japantown as he questioned the trajectory of his life. Even with his mind elsewhere, his hands moved with the mechanical precision of a veteran techie. He poured the synthetic starch batter onto the hot griddle; it hissed and curled, turning a sickly, appetizing yellow.
He reached for a handful of 'meat' skewers. In Night City, 'meat' was a generous term. These were processed protein blocks derived from mass-farmed earthworms and crickets, ground into a paste and textured to mimic muscle fiber. If you could ignore the reality of the insect farm, the heavy infusion of sodium and artificial flavorings made it almost palatable.
"Yo, Boss! Extra spicy sauce?" a voice barked.
"Pile it on," Kael replied flatly.
He squeezed a generous amount of neon-red, chemically-enhanced spicy sauce over the protein before rolling it into the flatbread. He called it a flatbread for the sake of marketing, but it bore no resemblance to anything found in a pre-Collapse history book. It was purely a product of the corporate food chain.
Just as Kael was about to swap the wrap for a handful of Eurodollars, the sharp, rhythmic crack of gunfire tore through the ambient hum of the market.
"You dare zero my boys on my turf?! Kill them all!"
A Tyger Claw lieutenant—decked out in a high-collared kimono, a glowing tiger-head mask, and skin covered in luminescent tattoos—drew a thermal katana. With a predatory howl, he led a pack of street samurais into the fray, their cybernetic joints whirring as they charged.
"...Tsk. He didn't pay."
Kael muttered a curse under his breath. Like the other veteran vendors, he didn't run; he simply ducked behind his reinforced stall, waiting for the lead to stop flying. Life in Night City wasn't about changing the world; it was about adapting to its brutality.
If you stayed long enough, you learned the unspoken protocol: Head down during the day, locked doors before dusk, pay your protection fees to the local gangs, and never—ever—slot a chip of unknown origin. And always carry a few spare Eddies in an accessible pocket. If a Scavenger robs you, let them have it. You don't want a desperate, chrome-addicted psycho coming up empty-handed.
Clang!
A stray round punched through the side of his stall, tearing a jagged hole right through the center of his griddle.
Kael's eye twitched. The bullet had missed his ribs by less than an inch.
"Damn it... Night City, you absolute bitch," he hissed, staring at the ruined heating element. "One of these days, I'm going to level this place."
With his equipment trashed, Kael closed shop early.
He lived near the Cherry Blossom Market, a stone's throw from the H8 Megabuilding. It was a tourist-heavy district filled with bowing service-bots and dazzling holographic displays, making it marginally safer than the combat zones of Heywood.
He cut through a graffiti-stained alley to reach the side entrance of his apartment block. The air hit him first—a nauseating cocktail of industrial runoff, human waste, and fermenting soy-protein.
Kael navigated the lobby with a "Calculating Survivor's" focus. He ignored the junkies slumped against the walls, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes by bad batches of Reflex Boosters. They were like walking corpses, and you never knew when one might snap into a cyberpsychotic episode and try to take a chunk out of your throat.
He bypassed the elevator—a metal coffin usually filled with trash and biohazards—and took the stairs to the top floor.
"Home early today, aren't we?"
The voice came from above. Kael looked up to see a girl leaning over the railing, swirling a colorful drink. Her asymmetrical bob and shifting rainbow gradient hair stood out like a diamond in a trash heap.
Of course, Kael thought. I run into the Living Ancestor.
"Hmph," Kael grunted, continuing his climb.
As he reached her level, the girl's full silhouette came into focus. Her face was delicate, highlighted by red cyber-makeup that gave her an ethereal, dangerous edge. She wore a cropped white jacket over a black netrunning suit, paired with thigh-high socks and boots. She was a masterpiece of high-tech aesthetics and retro-cool.
Kael knew her well—though their history was a series of unfortunate events.
"No 'hello' for your favorite neighbor?" she asked playfully.
"...Morning, Lucy."
Kael forced a polite smile. Their first meeting had been on the NCART, back when Kael was still a top-tier student at Arasaka Academy. Before his father had been "retired" by corporate infighting, Kael had been a privileged brat with a chip full of Eddies meant for a high-end Clouds Braindance. Lucy had lifted that chip before the train even reached the next station.
Their second meeting was worse. He'd moved into this dump only to find her living across the hall. Thinking he was a corporate spy sent to settle a debt, she had tackled him, pinned him to the floor, and tightened a Monowire around his throat.
She'd only let him live after hacking his personal link and realizing he was just a broke dropout. Though, in Kael's mind, having your entire browsing history laid bare to a Master Netrunner was a fate worse than a flatline.
"Is it still morning?" Lucy stepped closer, her neon-ringed pupils locking onto his.
Before he could react, his hand felt light. She had swiped the leftover flatbread from his grip.
"Hmm, not bad... Wait, what is this? It's burning!" Lucy's eyes watered as the chemically induced spice hit her tongue.
"Spicy Cheeto-dust glaze," Kael said, his voice deadpan despite the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"You did that on purpose!"
Lucy grabbed his collar, pulling his face inches from hers. Kael felt his pulse quicken—partly from her proximity, and partly because he knew she could fry his nervous system in a heartbeat.
Kael was a technical genius, but his chrome was minimal. Aside from a pair of Kiroshi Optics and basic interface plugs, he was "ganic." His father had been a moderate who feared cyberpsychosis, leaving Kael relatively defenseless against a high-tier Netrunner like Lucy.
"You snatched it, Lucy. I didn't give it to you."
"You didn't warn me!"
"I assumed a professional could handle a little heat."
Lucy glared at him for a long beat before a smirk tugged at her lips. She let go of his collar. "I'll let it slide... this time. But you owe me a favor."
"...What kind of favor?"
Lucy reached behind her back and pulled out a sleek, customized pistol, spinning it before holding it out to him.
"Maintenance and a diagnostic. The barrel's alignment feels off. You were an Arasaka scholarship recipient for Firearm Tech, right? Prove it."
Kael sighed. He wasn't surprised she'd dug into his academic records. In this city, information was the only currency that didn't devalue. "Fine. I'll look at it."
"Good boy." Lucy stood on her tiptoes and patted his buzz cut like he was a stray dog she'd decided to keep.
As she turned to leave, a notification chimed in Kael's vision. [+300 Eddies Received].
"If I'm not satisfied, I want a refund," she called out, her silhouette disappearing around the corner.
Three hundred Eurodollars for a basic tune-up? It was an overpayment, but Kael knew the hidden cost. He kept his technical skills a secret because a freelance techie with his pedigree was a prime target for kidnapping by gangs like the Maelstrom or the Tyger Claws. Selling flatbreads was his camouflage.
He entered his apartment, locked the three heavy-duty bolts, and checked his local security net. Only then did he collapse onto the bed.
As his eyes closed, the grime of Night City faded. The neon lights and the smell of ozone vanished, replaced by a deafening, absolute silence.
His consciousness drifted, expanding until it hit a familiar, shimmering boundary. He wasn't just Kael the street vendor anymore. He was something more.
He opened his eyes in the White Space, the sanctuary outside of time.