I can slaughter them at any moment.

The Maelstrom vehicle carrying Karl and his employer, Blanca, rolled into the industrial district of northern Watson. Instead of pulling into a factory as Karl had anticipated, the car wove through a labyrinth of side streets before finally coming to a stop in front of an apartment complex.

Back when Watson was still slated to be the city’s next downtown hub, the wealthy had built numerous apartment buildings along the edges of the northern industrial zone, as if to physically insulate themselves from the districts where their low-level employees resided. But as Watson fell into decline, fewer and fewer of the affluent remained. After the rise of the Maelstrom gang, those who could afford to leave did so to avoid the "protection fees" the gangers frequently came to collect. Nowadays, the residents of these northern apartment blocks—those still clinging to the illusion of a gated, "wealthy" lifestyle—were nothing more than factory workers.

As these facts about Watson flickered through his mind, Karl found himself appreciating the location chosen by the people he and his employer were about to meet. Compared to the grim, steel-choked factories that stirred up unpleasant memories, this apartment building was far more to his liking. Even if they were heading into a negotiation, being able to look out at a stretch of sunlight would at least make the mood a little more bearable. Not that the sunlight in Night City ever looked particularly brilliant, choked as it was by the smog of pollution.

When the vehicle came to a halt, the first things Karl saw were two Maelstrom members standing before the entrance, each gripping a well-maintained Saratoga submachine gun.

[Militech M-221 Saratoga]: Originally designed for corporate security, the signature clicking sound of this submachine gun had clearly won over the favor of gang members. Of course, one couldn't discount its relatively low production cost and ease of modification. In short, if you run into someone on the street wielding this weapon—which looks smaller and seemingly cuter than its counterparts—it is highly recommended that you keep your distance. The Saratoga is no Lexington; it is not to be trifled with.

*Why did that information snippet have to include a jab at my preferences?* Karl thought. They were both Militech guns. In the past, the Lexington and the Saratoga were even named after sister aircraft carriers. To think that by 2075, they were being compared like this. As a semi-devoted fan of the Lexington, Karl had left his own at home, yet a part of him still felt a lingering attachment to his first sidearm. Even so, as he caught sight of the Saratogas, his hand moved instinctively to rest near the Kenshin pistol at his hip. If these Maelstrom lunatics decided to stop caring about their own and started spraying lead inside, he would never be able to protect his client. The odds were low, but as a bodyguard, one had to remain vigilant.

The Maelstrom weren't insane enough to pull people in for negotiations only to slaughter them alongside their own men. Once the car stopped, the two guards stepped aside, lowering their weapons in a gesture of welcome.

"Time to get out."

Blanca spoke only those words before opening the door and stepping out. Karl glanced at the silent driver in the front seat. Seeing that he had no intention of speaking, Karl exited the vehicle as well. However, just as he stepped onto the pavement, he heard a faint click.

It was the sound of a firearm safety being disengaged. The sound had come from the driver’s seat.

*Looks like they’ve already prepared an ambush for these negotiations.*

With a calm expression, Karl didn't show any sign of surprise. He walked slowly to his employer’s side and followed her into the four-story building under the watchful, welcoming gaze of the two Maelstrom members.

Once they were fully inside, one of the guards cradled his Saratoga and approached the driver.

"Did they show anything unusual on the way here?"

"No. That corpo-rat seemed a bit nervous the whole time. My kiroshis scanned a significant spike in her adrenaline, but that’s likely just anxiety over the upcoming deal, not a sign she’s planning to break it."

"And the bodyguard following her? The greenhorn who supposedly took out 'The Devil' and wiped out one of our strongholds?"

"That kid..." The Maelstrom driver, a man with high-ranking status and advanced scanning optics, felt his red cybernetic eyes flicker. He spoke in a tone of disbelief, uncertain even of his own assessment. "He never showed a hint of nerves, not once. Even knowing he was being driven straight into our den. Compared to those bottom-tier mercs who wet themselves the moment they get in the car, he’s got guts. But..."

"But?"

The guard at the door didn't understand why his friend was hesitating; it wasn't like him.

"I have this feeling that the only reason he didn't care is because he could have slaughtered me whenever he wanted. He wasn't afraid because he held my life in his hands the entire time. You wouldn't believe it—I didn't dare run a single red light on the way here, just because he was sitting behind me. I didn't even dare to breathe too loudly, afraid that one wrong look or a bad mood would make him finish me off. I only dared to take the safety off my gun once he was finally out of the car."

As he spoke, the driver’s voice rose, a sense of having narrowly escaped death washing over him. Panic, delayed but genuine, began to surface on his face. He reached back to touch his own spine, only to find it drenched in cold sweat.

"You're exaggerating..."

The guard began to say, but noticing the genuine terror in his friend's expression, he stopped mid-sentence. Seeking confirmation, he asked, "Is it really that extreme?"

"It might be even worse than I'm saying. My gut tells me that even though he isn't wearing sub-dermal armor to deflect bullets, and only has basic ballistic padding on, if he wanted to, he could slaughter every one of us alone without taking a single scratch."

"Without taking a single scratch?"

The guard looked toward the apartment building where Karl had just entered, feeling a sudden lack of confidence. "There are ten of our boys waiting in that negotiation room. Ten guns pointed at him. He couldn't possibly take them all out at once..."

Even as he said it, his voice lacked conviction. He remembered the way the man had glanced at him as he walked past, and a strange, creeping dread—the very same one his friend described—had taken hold of him, too.