Chapter 126 – Lions, Tigers, and Rabbits

As David led his mother out through the back door, Carl stood up just as the gunfight in the streets had begun to subside.

It wasn't that the gang members had decided to stop fighting—rather, most of the people inside the shop had already been killed.

Carl glanced around at the corpses littering the restaurant and then at the wounded gang members outside, groaning and screaming in pain. He shook his head.

Gang wars were nothing new to him. As a mercenary, he had no intention of getting involved unless he had a job. To him, it was nothing more than dogs tearing each other apart—neither side was any better than the other.

Noticing a bullet-riddled vending machine in the shop, Carl took a few steps toward it, stuffed a banknote into the now-exposed coin slot, and retrieved a can of real water.

It was about time.

Carl: Looks like it's almost over out here. Did anyone try to break into the bar?

Oliver: Nope. Everyone inside except me and Jackie rushed out to join the fight. They're all going at it outside, shooting like crazy. Since our job was just to guard the bar, I didn't bother getting involved.

Carl: And you, Jackie? You didn't go out either?

Jackie: We were hired to protect the bar, so we're protecting the bar. We're mercs—we don't need to get involved in anything extra. Besides, I don't even know any of these guys outside. Why should I care?

Carl: Fair enough. The Valentinos have nearly six thousand members—no way you know all of them. And you're not exactly the social type.

Jackie: Hey, watch it, Carl. I used to be pretty damn popular. But yeah, I get it—some people have nostalgia for their old crew, but I'm a merc now. I'm not about to start helping people just because we used to roll in the same gang.

Oliver: Honestly, it's better that no one ran inside. It would've been a real headache if that happened. Jackie and I came from opposite backgrounds, so if people had tried to barge in, we'd probably have to just stick to the job and do what we were hired for.

Jackie: Exactly. This is the last time I take a job tied to my old crew. Things get too messy when past and present collide.

Carl: I already called NCPD. They'll be here soon to clean up… Oh, I hear the sirens now. Looks like the Six Street gang is gonna take the fall for this one. It's past nine—time for us to head out.

Oliver: Got it. Jackie and I are wrapping up here. Meet us at the bar, and we'll take the car out the back.

Mercenaries had no stake in gang wars. You either took a job or you didn't. And if you did, you stuck to it—no unnecessary heroics. They were supposed to be done by nine, and they had already stayed past their shift. No one was paying them for overtime.

Finishing the last sips of his water, Carl walked out into the street, stepping over the scattered shell casings. The moment he stepped outside, he caught the attention of all three gang factions.

The unspoken rule in the streets was to settle things before NCPD arrived. If they showed up, things might be negotiable. But if the MAX-TAC squad was called in, it was game over.

Hearing the growing wail of sirens, all three gangs realized the fight was over. They began gathering their equipment and dragging away their fallen comrades' bodies, preparing to leave.

But just as the battle was coming to a close, a man strolled right into the center of their former battlefield.

Dressed neatly, moving casually, drinking from a can as if he were out for a leisurely evening walk—he stood out like a sore thumb.

"Who the hell is this guy?"

Every gang member who had just survived the brutal shootout had the same thought.

The scene was absurd.

If they had to describe it, they would say it was like a rabbit hopping between two bloodied beasts—a lion and a tiger—just after they had finished mauling each other.

Either the beasts had gone insane… or the rabbit had lost its mind.

Who in their right mind would casually stroll through the middle of a battlefield right after both sides had just lowered their guns?

Even among the most thick-skinned Night City residents—those who had long grown numb to shootouts—there wasn't a single person reckless enough to do something like that.

Carl walked over to a street-side trash bin and, with a certain sense of etiquette, tossed his empty can inside. Then, he shook his hands to fling off the condensation that had formed on the cold aluminum and stuck to his fingers.

The air was still hot from the gunfight, almost as if the battle itself had raised the temperature a few degrees. But drinking an ice-cold can of real water straight from a vending machine? Now that was refreshing.

After disposing of the can, Carl noticed the stunned gazes coming from both sides of the street. He didn't pay them much mind—he simply nodded toward the group on the left, then did the same toward the group on the right. That should count as saying hello.

"It's already late. Get some rest, everyone."

As Carl calmly walked into the bar, his demeanor completely unshaken, the gang members finally snapped out of their daze.

And just like that, time—momentarily frozen—began to move again.

For some reason, the wounded lions and tigers had only resumed their actions after seeing the rabbit walk past them.

"Hurry up and drag the wounded out—this one's still alive. Leave the bodies for the Trauma Center; we'll claim them later!"

"Damn those Tiger Claws! I swear, I'll gut every last one of them on the street next time I see them!"

"Move, move! NCPD's here! Don't let those corrupt bastards catch us, or they'll be more than happy to put a bullet in our heads just to pad their damn arrest record!"

"Shit, why the hell did NCPD get here so fast today?!"

Amid the chaos, the gang members—seasoned in handling street skirmishes—couldn't shake off a lingering thought from their minds.

They had all seen it.

That black-haired young man, walking straight through the heart of the battle with no hesitation.

Normally, if someone pulled a stunt like that, at least one gang member would have reacted. Someone would have threatened him. Someone would have drawn their gun, just to flex their dominance.

But no one did.

Why?

Was it because they thought it pointless to deal with a lunatic?

Then why, out of the thirty-something hardened street soldiers present, not a single one had spoken a word? Not one had moved a muscle?

It was as if they had all been muted, like someone had pressed the silence button in a braindance.

Why, in that moment, had the only sounds in the street come from the wounded, writhing in pain?

Only after they had all retreated did the lions and tigers realize the truth.

In those old African savanna braindances, when a real lion walked through the plains, the little rabbits hiding in their burrows would never dare make a sound.

Only the wounded ones, those who had nowhere left to run, would cry out.

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