Chapter 169: Fujiwara Yoshinaga

"The transport operation has been exposed."

Fujiwara Yoshinaga, seated on the luxurious sofa in his villa's grand hall, sipping red wine, frowned slightly as he read the incoming message.

He vaguely recognized the sender—one of the low-level logistics workers responsible for supplying his fresh meat.

So, the operation got exposed...

Does that mean my transactions—paying for meat deliveries—have been uncovered?

Tch. Useless bottom-feeders.

At twenty-eight years old, Fujiwara Yoshinaga hailed from an aristocratic Japanese family, one that once held noble status. But after losing a power struggle, he had been forced to relocate to Night City, now in his fourth year here.

His feelings toward this city?

Nothing but disgust.

No servants, no personal butlers, nothing.

Everything had to be personally arranged, personally handled.

He was sick of it.

Just earlier today, the so-called "trained chef" he had hired, who boasted a degree from a prestigious culinary school, had utterly failed at making even three simple meals. So, naturally, he "fired" him—not too long ago.

And now, just as he was planning to hire a new chef, he suddenly had a problem with his food supply.

"Handle it yourself."

"I'm paying you, and I already cleaned up your mess when you botched the shipment. I even had my men take care of that idiot who picked up the wrong package. If you still want to get paid, then fix it yourself."

After sending off that half-hearted reply, Fujiwara turned his attention to another concerning message—a contract termination notice from the Tyger Claws.

Frowning deeper, he immediately contacted the chief of his villa's security team:

"The Tyger Claws suddenly terminated my security contract. Probably because someone from my family is still pulling strings, trying to take me out. Keep your men alert tonight."

But this time, he received no response.

His brows furrowed further.

"Savage, useless Americans."

He cursed under his breath.

If it weren't for security concerns, he would have disposed of them long ago—just like that useless chef, drowning them in his swimming pool, shattering their bodies, and using them as fertilizer for his garden flowers.

His flowers had been looking weak lately, struggling from poor nutrition.

And if it hadn't been for that pathetic logistics worker insisting on staging the murder as a "street gang hit," he would have already ground up the pig bones and used them for fertilizer.

Just thinking about it irritated him.

Not to mention, that same security team had already caused him a massive headache.

When he ordered them to clean up the loose ends, they not only grabbed the delivery guy but also brought back a tailing detective—and not just any detective.

A Dangerous Girls detective.

That wasn't someone they could just kill and forget.

Murdering some random bottom-feeder was a trivial matter—something that could be forgotten the next day.

But kidnapping a Dangerous Girls investigator?

That was the kind of shit that could get him killed.

"These fools will snatch anything, huh?"

If it weren't for hacking into the detective's neural chip, confirming her movements weren't being tracked, and double-checking security logs to ensure no one had spotted her abduction, he would have already been scrambling to negotiate a way out of this mess.

Still, keeping her locked up indefinitely wasn't a solution either.

He needed to stage an accident, something that would eliminate both her and his security team.

Once they were dead, all he had to do was delete the mission records and silence any remaining personnel—make sure there were no loose ends.

Even if the real power behind Dangerous Girls suspected something, they wouldn't be able to act openly against him.

After all, his ancestors had served the Emperor with unwavering loyalty.

Even if he was a disgraced exile, they wouldn't disregard centuries of allegiance over a minor inconvenience, right?

But there was another reason he couldn't just release the Dangerous Girls detective—an even bigger issue.

The moment she was brought into his villa, while he was away, she had attempted an escape—and accidentally saw something she shouldn't have.

Fujiwara Yoshinaga had confidential records—data he had secretly compiled to assist a certain high-ranking figure back in Japan after being exiled to Night City.

That information was far more critical than kidnapping and detaining a Dangerous Girls detective.

It could not be exposed.

If it ever got out, Fujiwara Yoshinaga would have no chance of survival.

Truth be told, he had considered alternative solutions—perhaps hiring a netrunner to wipe the detective's memory entirely.

Or, better yet, just eliminating her outright—either personally or through his security team.

But he didn't trust them.

He didn't trust any netrunner he could hire, and he certainly didn't trust his security team.

What if the hacker decided to sell that classified memory data instead?

What if his security team slipped up and leaked the truth about her murder?

Fujiwara, knowing how unreliable and self-serving people were, was deeply paranoid about betrayal.

And honestly? He wasn't even surprised by their incompetence anymore.

If those idiotic mercenaries hadn't grabbed the detective in the first place, he wouldn't be in this situation—unable to kill her, yet unable to let her go.

They had put him in an impossible position, and now he had to figure out how to escape it.

Fujiwara was fully aware of his own predicament.

Kidnapping a subordinate of a major power?

That alone was a death sentence.

If he killed her, her superiors would hunt down the culprit—and the moment they found out he was involved… he was finished.

If he let her go, she would escape with valuable intel, and he'd be as good as dead anyway.

There was only one option—keep her imprisoned until he could stage an "accident".

The plan was simple:

He would eliminate the detective and his security team in one go—frame it as an unfortunate incident.

Then, he'd plead ignorance, offer the dead security team as a scapegoat, and invoke the old loyalty his family had shown to the Emperor as protection.

If everything went smoothly, the higher-ups might just let it slide.

"Damn it!"

Fujiwara slammed his fist onto the glass table, hard enough to rattle his half-empty glass of red wine, causing some to spill onto the surface.

The fact that he was forced to rely on delaying her disappearance instead of executing a clean kill—all because he needed more time—was insulting.

This whole mess?

The fault of those idiotic American mercenaries.

If he weren't forced to hire outsiders, if he weren't constantly paranoid that Japanese hires would contain spies from his own family, he never would have ended up like this.

Those American fools are utterly useless!

Fujiwara glared at his message log.

His security chief still hadn't responded.

How dare they?

Ignoring a direct message from their employer?

Not even a simple "Yes" or "Understood"?

These arrogant Americans!

They didn't know how to bow, they didn't know how to show respect, they didn't know how to follow orders.

And they were terrible at their jobs.

Why the hell had he hired them in the first place?!

Then, amidst his rage, Fujiwara suddenly felt something was off.

The villa was... too quiet.

Too quiet.

His biomechanical guard dog, the one patrolling the perimeter, wasn't sending any signals.

Why?

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