Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 91: I Am the Victim!

After a long ride, Arthur finally returned to his apartment in Delamain's car. As they pulled up outside the towering super-skyscraper, his phone buzzed again—another call. He sighed and scratched the back of his head, already weary from the day. Glancing at the caller ID, he groaned. The call was from Maine.

The moment Arthur picked up, Maine's voice blasted through the earpiece like a shotgun. "Damn it, Arthur! Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you non-stop! You just ghosted me!"

Arthur blinked. Had he done something to provoke Maine lately? As far as he remembered, no. So why was he getting yelled at?

"Oh my sweet Maine," Arthur said, his tone dry. "If you ever talk to me like that again, I swear I'll plant my boot so deep in your ass, you'll be choking on shoelaces."

Annoyed, Arthur leaned against the building wall instead of heading upstairs, ignoring the buzzing swarm of cockroaches and the overpowering stench wafting from a nearby garbage chute. Not even the sight of a homeless man wearing outdated Mewtwo tech stumbling around could distract him from the headache Maine's call was giving him.

"You remember the last job we did?" Maine said, voice suddenly lower. "Things got... complicated. It's not going well, and I might need a little help. How about it, Uncle Arthur comes to the rescue?"

Arthur snorted. If it was just "a little trouble," Maine wouldn't be calling him like his life depended on it. His eyes drifted to a nearby public screen broadcasting the news. There it was: breaking footage of a cyberpsycho who had taken company employees hostage and was locked in a standoff with NCPD.

He narrowed his eyes. "Let me guess... your little 'trouble' is that you've got an entire Terrorist Mobile Team parked outside, like some twisted version of a Welcome Wagon?"

"Cut the chatter!" Maine snapped. "Just answer me straight—are you coming to help or not?"

Arthur shrugged. With a quick motion, he pulled his pistol and pointed it at a nearby Sixth Street Gang thug. The poor guy immediately froze, hands raised.

"Woah, woah! No need for that, choomba!" the thug stammered. "The car's over there. Take it! Just, uh... bring it back, yeah?"

Arthur chuckled and accepted the keycard. "You've got a bright future, kid. Relax—it's just a ride. I'll bring it back."

He climbed into the car and revved the engine. "This one's for Maine helping me on gigs for half a year," he muttered to himself.

"You know I warned you," Arthur continued over the call. "Those six-eyed freaks would be your ticket to an early grave, but nooo, you didn't listen!"

There was a moment of silence. Then Maine grumbled, "Damn it... this was just a freak accident! That Mewtwo editor didn't even have combat mods. One stray bullet to the throat and—bam—dead on the spot."

Arthur frowned, checking the navigation. "Hold tight. I'll be there in five. And next time, use your damn brain before working with that crew. You've got the smallest brain in Night City, I swear."

"Who pulls off a job that escalates to both a trauma team and a terrorist response team? You're worse than a Twisted Street girl counting her change after being sold!"

Arthur hung up and sighed. As he sped toward the location, he made another call—this time to Melissa.

"Hey, sweetheart, you free to help me out on a quick job?"

"Are you out of your damn mind, Arthur? You've got the balls to call me after what you pulled? You ruined my relationship!"

"Hold on," Arthur replied coolly. "You came on to me. I'm just the victim here."

"Victim, my ass! I should report you to NCPD. But lucky for you, I'm too nice. Just don't make me kill all your little goons. What do you need?"

"I need you to play along with me when I show up. That's all."

"You're such a piece of shit..."

"You knew that already," Arthur said, grinning. "Looking forward to seeing you there."

She hung up on him, but Arthur knew she'd show. Women had sharp tongues and soft hearts. He knew the game.

Minutes later, Arthur pulled up to the chaos. The scene was crawling with NCPD officers, trauma team agents, and the hovering vehicles of the Terrorist Mobile Team. He parked casually and stepped out, fading from sight like a ghost, his optical camo kicking in.

He walked past the perimeter like a breeze, eyes scanning the sky. Two vehicles hovered overhead—one from the trauma team and the other from the terrorist response unit. The trauma team had been waiting so long, Arthur figured their VIP client's bank account was getting drained by the minute.

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Taking a deep breath, Arthur bent his knees—and launched. Like a bullet, he shot through the air, smashing through a high-rise window and entering the scene with a deafening crash.

Almost immediately, his cybernetic reflexes flared. His mantis blade flicked out just in time to clash against an incoming katana. The agent wielding it looked surprised.

Arthur's voice was calm. "Kids shouldn't play with knives. You'll hurt yourselves."

He twisted, driving a fist into the agent's chest and ripping the blade from his grip. Blood exploded in a spray as the man crumpled. Arthur didn't hesitate—he yanked the katana free, spun, and slashed down hard, carving the agent apart in a shower of crimson.

The room turned into a bloodbath in seconds.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Arthur saw movement—another agent trying to hide. His lips curled into a grim smile.

"The hunt begins."

He dropped low, blades glinting. Gunfire erupted. Arasaka agents opened fire, but Arthur was already gone, leaving behind a blur. One by one, their heads flew, severed cleanly, their bodies collapsing like puppets with snipped strings.

After the final body fell, Arthur pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, then looked toward the corner of the room.

"David," he said, voice soft. "You wanna explain to your old man why you skipped school to hang out with this bunch of jokers?"

David, wide-eyed and shaking, wiped blood from his face. He looked like he had just walked through hell. His entire body trembled. What he saw was far beyond anything he'd ever witnessed—even worse than his tour through Night City's psych ward.

Hot weapons were one thing. But cold steel? The carnage? The horror of seeing someone's head fly off and blood pooling at your feet?

He staggered, retching. But nothing came out.

Arthur stood still, smoke curling from his lips. He sighed, voice calm but tired.

"This is what it means to survive in Night City,

kid."

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