“Wanna buy my organs with blood money?” Levi stood over Kinosuke’s corpse, looking down at the pulped remains of the secretary’s head.
He raised a middle finger.
“You deserve each other, you and Afanasy.
Go sit at the same table in hell.” He spat on the body, then pulled up his interface to browse the available abilities.
He’d been in such a rush to survive that he hadn’t taken a proper look at what else was on the menu.
These weren’t just perks—they were his survival insurance.
[Ability: Aim-Lock] [Effect: When firing, the muzzle is permanently locked onto the enemy’s forehead] [Reputation: 100] [Evaluation: One shot, one kill.
You’re a god of marksmanship!] [Ability: Wallhack] [Effect: You can see the position of all enemies] [Reputation: 100] [Evaluation: Stop staring at the walls, you perv—it doesn’t let you see through clothes!] [Ability: Auto-Regen] [Effect: Controlled breathing drastically increases your health recovery rate] [Reputation: 500] [Evaluation: Injured?
Bleeding out?
No problem.
Just take a deep breath.] Levi’s eyes lit up at the [Auto-Regen].
As a hardcore FPS fan from his previous life, he knew the legend of the “Breathing Regen” mechanic.
In Call of Duty, the protagonists who possessed this “magic” could waltz through a hail of lead without a scratch.
Take a few hits?
No big deal, just duck behind a wall and breathe.
Near death?
Just catch your breath.
It wasn’t just a skill; it was a divine power.
He didn’t hesitate.
Spend.
500 reputation points vanished, and the ability locked into his panel.
Unlike [Aim-Lock], this was passive.
As soon as it materialized, he felt a warmth surging through him with every lungful of air.
Within seconds, the exhaustion and the lingering aches from the battle faded, leaving him feeling healthier and more energized than his office-working self had ever been.
“Much better.” Levi inhaled deeply, feeling sharp and alert.
Suddenly, a blue light caught his eye—Kinosuke’s optics were still flickering.
It was eerie, seeing that dead light pulse on a cooling corpse.
Uneasy, Levi knelt and searched the body until he found a hidden USB-like port behind the right ear.
He checked his own; he had one too.
He pulled a thin data cable from his own port—labeled with the Zeiss logo—and, against his better judgment, plugged it into Kinosuke’s interface.
A red panel flooded his vision: [BIO-MONITOR PANEL].
[Kinosuke Ogai.
NC41884.
Trauma Team Platinum Member.] A synthetic female voice rang out inside his skull: “Hello, Kinosuke Ogai.
If you are conscious, please assume the recovery position.
Emergency evacuation team dispatched.
ETA: 180 seconds.” “Ninety percent of your rescue and treatment costs are covered by your Platinum Package.” Trauma Team?
Platinum Package?
Levi’s stomach turned.
This wasn’t a rescue; it was a corporate cleanup crew.
A heavy, pressurized whoosh echoed from the balcony, followed by a mechanical drone: “Docking now.
Please clear the area.
Security protocols activated.
Comply with all instructions.” Levi turned.
A hovering AV, trapezoidal and painted in the signature white and pine-green of the Trauma Team, hovered at the edge of the balcony.
The logo—a stylized ‘X’ through a ‘|’—loomed over the site.
Four figures in white helmets and matte-green tactical gear disembarked.
“Drop the weapon!
Hands where I can see them!” the lead operator shouted, gun leveled at Levi’s chest.
“You are in violation of Night City law.
Stand down and await arrest by NCPD, or we are authorized to use lethal force!” Levi didn’t wait to be cuffed.
He dove to the side just as four rifles opened fire.
Bullets chewed up the floor where he had been standing a second ago.
Despite his reflex, a searing pain tore through his abdomen—a clean hit.
“Fuck!” Levi hissed, clutching his side.
He sprinted toward the end of the hall, slammed his shoulder into the fire door, and scrambled down the stairwell.
Two tactical specialists peeled off to hunt him, while the lead emergency technician and his assistant stayed behind to stabilize Kinosuke.
After a flurry of defibrillation, epinephrine, and dopamine shots, the lead technician opened a channel.
“TT-4396 to Control Center,” the tech reported, voice flat.
“Patient NC41884 is brain dead.
Waiting for security specialists to return.
Returning to base.”