chapter 126

...Lion, Tiger, Rabbit...

When David and his mother left through the back door and Karl stood up, the gunfight on the street had already stopped.

It wasn't that the gang members didn't want to continue the fight; it was simply that most of the people involved in the store at the center of the conflict were already dead.

Karl looked at the bodies scattered across the store and then at the wounded gang members on the street, some still wailing in pain. He shook his head.

As a mercenary, Karl had no intention of getting involved in gang wars unless a job specifically required it. To him, both sides were like dogs biting each other—neither better than the other.

Glancing at a vending machine riddled with bullet holes, Karl took a few steps forward, inserted a banknote into the exposed coin slot, and grabbed a can of real water. He popped it open and drank it calmly.

He messaged his team:

Karl: "It's almost over outside. Did anyone try to rush into the bar?"

Oliver: "Nope. Everyone except Jack and me ran outside to keep fighting. We stuck to the plan—protect the bar."

Karl: "What about you, Jack? Didn't feel like joining the action?"

Jack: "We're mercenaries, not babysitters. No need to get dragged into someone else's mess. Besides, I don't even know those people. Why should I care?"

Karl: "Fair point. The Valentino gang has, what, six thousand members? You can't possibly know everyone. You're not exactly a social butterfly."

Jack: "Hey now, I used to be pretty popular. Don't get me wrong—I get the nostalgia for the old days, but I'm a mercenary now. Just because they're from my old gang doesn't mean I'm jumping in to help. If someone breaks into the bar, sure, I'll handle it—that's part of the job. But running out there? Not my problem."

Oliver: "True. Thankfully no one came in. This kind of thing is such a hassle. If they had, Jack and I would've had to deal with it, and you know how messy that can get."

Karl: "Yeah, I hear you. Anyway, I called the NCPD. They'll be here to clean up soon… Oh, I can already hear the sirens. Looks like the Sixth Street gang is about to have a bad night. It's past nine—time to clock out."

Oliver: "Got it. Jack and I will wrap things up. Meet us at the bar, and we'll head out through the back door."

Street gangs and their feuds had nothing to do with this group of mercenaries. Their jobs were clear-cut: accept the mission, do the mission, and nothing more. They weren't about to work past their agreed time, especially without overtime pay.

Karl finished his drink in a few gulps, tossed the empty can into a nearby trash bin, and walked onto the street littered with bullet shells. As he stepped out of the store, he caught the attention of three gang members.

The unspoken rule of the streets was to settle conflicts before the NCPD arrived. Once the cops showed up, things got complicated—especially if you provoked the MaxTac unit.

Hearing the sirens getting closer, the three gangsters stopped fighting, quickly packed up their equipment, and began dragging away the bodies of their comrades. But their focus shifted when they saw Karl.

A young man, calm and collected, holding a can of water, casually strolled into the center of their former battlefield. His relaxed demeanor was jarring, to say the least.

The sight struck the gang members as absurd.

It was like a scene from a BD wreath:

When a lion and a tiger battle fiercely but retreat to lick their wounds, a rabbit hops between them, chewing on a leaf as if nothing had happened.

If the lion and tiger weren't insane, then surely the rabbit was.

Who in their right mind would walk nonchalantly through the middle of a gunfight's aftermath? Even among Night City's hardened residents, such a sight was unheard of.

Karl walked to a nearby trash can, tossed the empty can inside, and wiped his hands clean of condensation. The cool drink had been refreshing in the heat of the firefight's aftermath.

Noticing the gangsters' stunned expressions, Karl didn't care. He nodded to the group on the left, then to the group on the right, as if politely greeting them.

"It's late, folks. Get some rest," he said calmly before stepping back into the bar.

The gangsters stood frozen, their minds struggling to process what they had just witnessed. Only the sound of approaching sirens snapped them out of their stupor.

Time resumed.

"Move! Drag the wounded out of here—he's still breathing!"

"Leave the bodies for the trauma center to deal with; we'll pick them up later!"

"Damn those Tiger Claw bastards—I'll get my revenge!"

"Let's go! Don't let the NCPD catch us. Those dirty cops will pin everything on us and call it a day!"

"Why the hell are the cops here so fast tonight?"

Amid the chaos and retreat, the gangsters couldn't stop thinking about the black-haired young man who had strolled through the center of their battlefield as if it were nothing.

Typically, such arrogance would have provoked a reaction—threats, intimidation, maybe even a drawn gun. But none of them had said or done anything.

Why?

As they evacuated, an answer began to form in their minds.

In the BD wreaths that captured the wilds of Africa, when a real lion roams, the hares hiding in their burrows dare not make a sound. Only the wounded and dying rabbits cry out, unable to escape.

For the gangsters that night, Karl wasn't a rabbit. He was the lion.

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