Cyberpunk 2077: Doom

Pov: Victor Von Doom

The Corner Booth at El Coyote Cojo

Pepe sat at his usual spot near the jukebox in El Coyote Cojo, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table. He had recently gone on break in order to calm himself the results spiking his nerves. 

The low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses felt muted to him, like background noise in a bad dream. Every so often, his eyes darted to the entrance, waiting for the Doctor's imposing figure to appear.

The door creaked open, and there he was—a tall, broad-shouldered figure cloaked in heavy fabric, his metal mask reflecting the bar's dim light. Patrons gave him wary glances, but nobody spoke. The Doctor's reputation preceded him, and though many owed him their lives, his presence was an uneasy reminder of how close they'd come to death.

Pepe shot to his feet, waving him over. "Doc! Over here."

The Doctor nodded once and moved toward him, his steps deliberate, the mechanical hum of his equipment faintly audible as he approached. As he slid into the booth, the table seemed to shrink under his bulk.

"Pepe," the Doctor greeted, his voice modulated and even. "You holding up?"

Pepe forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Heh, not really. I've been goin' outta my mind, to tell you the truth. Thanks for comin', though. Really, it means a lot."

The Doctor leaned back slightly, his mechanical arms folding across his chest. "How's the bar? Business steady?"

Pepe shrugged, glancing around. "Same as ever. Folks come in, have a few drinks, complain about their gigs, then stagger home. At least it's predictable, you know? Makes me feel like I've got somethin' normal in my life."

The Doctor tilted his head slightly. "And how's Maria? The baby?"

Pepe hesitated, his eyes flicking to the table. "They're... good. I mean, the kid's healthy. Maria's happy, takin' to motherhood like she was born for it. But, Doc..." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's me. I can't shake this feelin' like somethin's off."

The Doctor said nothing, waiting.

"I mean, Maria and I—we're solid. Always have been," Pepe continued, his words tumbling out faster now. "But since the baby came, I've been... I don't know, paranoid, I guess. It's like I'm lookin' for problems that aren't there. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. That's why I came to you."

The Doctor reached into a compartment on his belt and retrieved a sealed envelope. He set it on the table, sliding it toward Pepe. "The results."

Pepe stared at the envelope like it might explode. He licked his lips, his hands trembling as he tore it open. Pulling out the document, he scanned the text, his brow furrowing.

"The kid's mine," he muttered, relief briefly flashing across his face. But then his expression darkened. "Wait—Maria's DNA isn't a match? What the hell does that mean?"

The Doctor folded his hands on the table, his voice calm and steady. "The hair sample you provided wasn't biological. It was synthetic—an advanced imitation, but artificial nonetheless. Either it wasn't her hair, or it was deliberately swapped."

Pepe blinked, the words not registering at first. "Synthetic? You're sayin' it wasn't real?"

The Doctor nodded. "Correct. It raises questions about the authenticity of the sample and, potentially, Maria's transparency with you."

Pepe leaned back, rubbing his temples. "This... this doesn't make any sense. Why would Maria give me fake hair? I mean, we're married! We've got a kid together! What reason would she have to lie to me?"

"There are many possibilities," the Doctor replied. "She could be concealing a medical condition, protecting her privacy, or hiding something more significant. None of these necessarily indicate infidelity, but they suggest there may be more to the situation than you're aware of."

Pepe clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. "Doc, I don't know what to do. Maria's always been straight with me—or at least, I thought she was. Now I'm second-guessing everything. What if she's caught up in something dangerous? What if—"

"Stop," the Doctor interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "You're spiraling. The evidence doesn't point to danger. It points to secrecy. Your next step is to talk to her. Directly. Calmly. Accusations will only deepen the divide."

Pepe nodded slowly, his breath uneven. "Yeah. You're right. I need to talk to her. But what if she shuts me out? What if there's somethin' she's too scared to tell me?"

The Doctor's mechanical fingers tapped the table lightly. "If it comes to that, I can investigate further. But your priority is maintaining trust. Approach her with care, Pepe. This isn't just about finding answers—it's about preserving your family."

Pepe stared at the results again, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to her. But, Doc..." He looked up, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "If this turns out to be somethin' bigger—if she's in trouble—you'll help, right?"

The Doctor nodded once. "You have my word."

Pepe exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his body. "Thanks, Doc. I mean it. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The Doctor stood, his cloak shifting as he adjusted his equipment. "Stay focused, Pepe. Your family needs you. The truth will come out in time."

As he turned to leave, Pepe called after him. "Hey, Doc—can I ask you somethin'?"

The Doctor paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Go ahead."

"Why do you do this? Helping people like me? You don't charge much, and you're always... around when we need you. What's in it for you?"

The Doctor tilted his head slightly, considering the question. "Night City is a place where trust is scarce, and help often comes at a price. I provide what others won't. Stability. Compassion. A fighting chance."

With that, he turned and walked toward the exit, his heavy boots echoing softly against the floor. Pepe watched him go, the words lingering in his mind, "A quiet life or a blaze of glory... I guess only you'd be qualified to say both, eh." 

The truth was out there, somewhere—but for now, all Pepe could do was hold on to the hope that his family was worth fighting for.

---

Pov: Third Person

Convoy Under Siege

The convoy rumbled along the dimly lit road, the cracked pavement illuminated by the flickering neon signs of Night City's industrial outskirts. Inside the lead truck, two Animals—beefy men with bulging muscles and implants to match—sat in the cab, their conversation bouncing between complaints and casual chatter.

"Choom, I swear," the driver muttered, gripping the wheel tightly. His cybernetic hand clicked faintly as he adjusted his grip. "This gig's gon' be the death of me. Keep hauling this preem drek all over town, and what do we get? A few eddies and a pat on the back?"

"Better than nothin'," the passenger replied, leaning back with a grunt. His face was partially obscured by the low brim of his cap, but the glow of his ocular implants made it impossible to miss his disapproving glare. "Could be sittin' broke at Totentanz, watching Maelstrom goons fight over scraps. 'Sides, boss said this haul's got some serious chrome in it. Pay'll come through."

"Yeah, yeah," the driver sighed, his annoyance seeping through every word. "Just don't like runnin' through Tyger Claw turf this late. Those gonks've been eyeballin' us all night."

The passenger straightened, glancing out the window as he activated his Kiroshi optics. "What're you talkin' 'bout?" he asked, scanning the shadows behind them.

"Tailin' us," the driver said, jerking his head toward the rearview mirror. "See that glow a few clicks back? Bikes. Gotta be Claws. They think we're packin' somethin' juicy."

The passenger frowned, leaning forward for a better view. "Shit... you might be right. Think we should call it in?"

"Call what in?" the driver snapped. "Boss ain't gonna send backup for a hunch. We keep rollin', choom. If they wanna frag around, we'll show 'em what's what."

"Fine, but I'm tellin' you—this smells like a setup."

As if on cue, the faint roar of engines grew louder, a menacing hum that set both men on edge. The passenger reached for the pistol strapped to his thigh. "Gonk bastards," he muttered. "They're closing in."

In the truck behind them, similar tension brewed among the other Animals. One of the drivers shouted into his comm, "Heads up, crew. Got some scavs sniffin' our chrome. Stay sharp!"

Before anyone could respond, the first explosion rocked the convoy. A molotov smashed against the side of the rear truck, flames licking at its frame. The driver swerved, cursing as he fought for control.

"Here we go!" the passenger in the lead truck yelled, drawing his gun. "They're comin' in hot!"

Bikes swarmed around the convoy like hungry sharks, Tyger Claw gang members armed with bats, pistols, and explosives. Gunfire erupted, the cacophony of shots and roaring engines echoing through the narrow streets.

Then, from the lead truck's rear cargo hold, the doors swung open.

A massive figure emerged, clad in nondescript black combat gear. His presence alone was enough to give the nearest Tyger Claw pause, but the precision of his movements sent a cold wave of fear through the gang.

The Judge didn't speak. He didn't need to.

With a flick of his wrist, his neural processor activated, sending an electromagnetic pulse that fried the nearest Tyger Claw's implants. The gonk froze mid-motion, his bike veering off course and crashing into a lamppost.

Another Judge followed, his movements equally fluid. The faint glow of targeting systems in his eyes betrayed the cold efficiency of his focus.

The leader of the Judges, Commander Hayes, stepped into view, his custom shotgun resting casually against his shoulder. "Unauthorized interference with state-sanctioned cargo," he declared, his tone calm yet unyielding. "Violation of Section Eight-Two of the Texas Penal Code. Guilty."

A Tyger Claw charged at him, swinging a katana wildly. Hayes sidestepped with ease, the blade missing him by inches. He raised his shotgun and fired, the gonk collapsing in a heap.

"You've been judged," Hayes said simply.

The other Judges worked with similar efficiency, their neural processors enabling them to outmaneuver the Tyger Claws at every turn. One by one, the gang fell, their screams drowned out by the relentless advance of the enforcers.

The Animals, meanwhile, huddled in their trucks, watching the carnage unfold.

"Who the hell are these guys?" the passenger in the lead truck muttered, his voice trembling.

"No fraggin' idea," the driver replied, gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. "But I ain't stickin' around to find out."

Hayes approached the cab, his imposing figure framed by the flickering firelight. The Animals shrank back as he rapped on the window with his gloved knuckles.

"Cargo's secure," Hayes said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You'll be escorted to the docks. Stay in line, and you'll live."

The driver nodded frantically, not daring to question the man.

As the convoy resumed its journey, the Judges fell into formation, their presence a stark reminder of the Doctor's reach and power. Whatever secrets lay within the cargo, one thing was certain: the Judges would ensure it reached its destination, no matter the cost.

The convoy rumbled onward, the tension inside the trucks thick enough to cut. The Animals exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to feel relieved or terrified under the escort of the mysterious Judges. In the lead truck, the driver stole a glance at the towering figure of Commander Hayes walking alongside the convoy, shotgun slung over his shoulder with an air of authority that demanded obedience.

"Yo, choom," the passenger whispered, leaning closer to the driver. "You seein' this preem gonk in black? Who the hell are these guys? They ain't Tyger Claws, that's for sure."

The driver nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "No clue, but I ain't tryin' to find out. Best keep your mouth shut and your chrome tucked away."

But curiosity, as always, got the better of one of the Animals. In the second truck, a particularly chatty ganger couldn't help himself. He rolled down the window and called out to one of the Judges walking beside his vehicle.

"Yo, big guy!" he hollered. "You some kinda corpo muscle? Militech? NCPD's finest? Gotta know who's got my ass covered tonight."

The Judge turned his head slightly, the red glow of his ocular implants flashing briefly in the darkness. He said nothing, his silence more unnerving than any retort could've been.

"C'mon, choom," the Animal pressed, his bravado mounting. "Least you could do's let me buy you a drink later, yeah? Heard about your kind before. Texas Judges, right? Ain't you guys, like... outlaw cops? Heard you work for some big-shot name Allfather or somethin'."

That stopped the entire convoy. The Judges halted in unison, their neural processors syncing instantaneously. Commander Hayes turned sharply, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached the truck. His shotgun remained slung, but the weight of his presence was enough to make the Animals freeze.

"You know too much," Hayes said, his voice cold and clipped.

The Animal in the truck gulped, the bravado draining from his face. "Hey, hey, chill! I'm just chattin', choom. Ain't mean nothin' by it."

Hayes didn't respond. Instead, he tapped a button on his neural interface, signaling the other Judges. Without hesitation, they surrounded the trucks, weapons drawn but aimed low.

"Step out of the vehicles," Hayes ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The Animals hesitated but complied, their heavy boots hitting the ground one by one. The tension was palpable as the Judges began searching them methodically, confiscating weapons and scanning their implants for tampering or encrypted data.

"Look, chooms, we're just doin' a job," the chatty Animal said, trying to placate them. "No need to get all chrome on us. We didn't mean nothin' by askin' questions."

Hayes stepped closer, towering over him like a shadow of judgment. "Ignorance is not a defense," he said. "You witnessed restricted operations. Spoke of knowledge you should not possess. By Texas Penal Code, such violations carry penalties of death or neural erasure."

The Animals paled, their bravado replaced by panic. "Neural erasure? The hell you talkin' about?" the driver of the lead truck blurted out.

"Mind wipe," Hayes clarified, his tone as sharp as a blade. "You'll be stripped of all memories related to this incident. Identity reassignment follows. Consider it mercy."

"Mercy?" the chatty Animal exclaimed, backing away. "You can't just—"

Before he could finish, one of the Judges jabbed a neural suppressor into his neck. The device clicked, releasing a soft hum as the Animal's body went limp, his consciousness fading. The others quickly followed suit, subdued with clinical precision.

Hayes watched impassively as his team worked, ensuring no loose ends remained. "You were guilty the moment you saw us exit the convoy," he said to no one in particular. "Ignorance would've been your salvation."

Within minutes, the Animals were unconscious, their memories wiped clean. The Judges moved efficiently, retrieving documents and creating new identities for their marks. Forged IDs, fake SINs, and fabricated histories were distributed among the limp bodies.

"We'll drop them near Little China," one of the Judges reported. "Random cleanup crew will find them, pass them off as scavs with no cred to their names."

"Good," Hayes replied. "Make sure they're scattered enough to avoid questions. This operation doesn't leave echoes."

As the Judges completed their task, they began stripping off their tactical gear. The sleek, high-tech armor folded neatly into suitcases, the nanotech components humming softly as they compressed. Within minutes, the once-imposing figures were unrecognizable. Dressed in plain clothes, they looked like ordinary citizens—a handful of mercs blending seamlessly into the underbelly of Night City.

"Dockyard's secured," one Judge said, checking a comm unit. "No signs of Maelstrom interference yet, but we're ready for their push."

"Keep it that way," Hayes replied. "Assimilate. Blend. Operate in the shadows. Allfather's orders stand—Night City's balance is fragile, and we are the scalpel that ensures it holds."

With that, the Judges dispersed, disappearing into Watson's neon-lit chaos. Though their presence faded, the memory of their precision and ruthlessness lingered—a stark reminder of the hidden powers shaping Night City's fate.

---

The Judges entered the dim-lit noodle stall, but this time, they weren't alone. Beside Allfather stood a towering figure encased in sleek, dark alloy—a Doombot.

Its glowing green eyes scanned the stall with an unnerving precision, its movements eerily human yet distinctly mechanical. Alicia leaned against the counter, swirling a bottle of Synth-Whiskey, her sharp eyes assessing the gathering.

"Didn't expect a proxy," Alicia remarked, her voice steady but edged with a hint of sarcasm. "Though I can't blame you for being cautious, considering the company these streets keep."

The Doombot's head tilted slightly, and Allfather's voice, calm and commanding, resonated through the machine. "Caution is a habit born of necessity. You've lived it."

Alicia smirked, but her eyes darkened briefly as memories threatened to resurface. "Yeah, I've lived it, and then some. So, what's the call here? The Animals' cargo made it, didn't it?"

The Doombot's glowing eyes seemed to focus solely on her, cutting through the small talk. "The cargo arrived. The issue lies with the hands that knew of its arrival. A mole exists—not in your crew, but among the hired mercenaries. Afterlife contractors."

Alicia straightened, her fingers tightening around the bottle. "Afterlife mercs?" she muttered, the distaste in her voice unmistakable. "Should've known. Those edgerunners'll sell their soul for the right cred." 

The Judges stood silently, their mere presence adding gravity to the exchange. One casually adjusted his jacket, the bulge of concealed weaponry obvious to those who knew what to look for. Another kept a sharp eye on the street, monitoring every passerby. 

"Allfather," Alicia said, pushing off the counter. "If it's true, this mercenary has seen too much. They're a risk not just to the operation, but to everything we've built in the shadows of Night City." 

The Doombot inclined its head. "You understand the stakes well. This breach cannot be tolerated. Find the mercenary. Extract what they know. Resolve the issue permanently, Captain." 

Alicia's jaw tightened. She nodded sharply. "Consider it done." 

The Doombot shifted slightly, the glow of its eyes dimming momentarily as Allfather's tone softened. "You've carried much on your shoulders, Alicia. Don't let this become another weight. You have my trust." 

For a moment, her guard faltered, and the faintest glimmer of gratitude flashed across her face. "I won't let you down, Allfather. Not after everything." 

As the Doombot stepped back, signalling the conclusion of their conversation, one of the Judges approached Alicia. "Captain," he said in a low voice, "we're set to move when you are. Just say the word." 

She nodded, glancing at the bottle in her hand before setting it down. "Let's hunt. If Afterlife's sending rats into my house, we'll flush them out—and make sure they don't scurry back." 

The Judges moved with purpose, blending into the chaotic rhythm of Night City. Alicia followed, her mind already turning over strategies. The memory of her squad—wiped out by Militech and the NUSA outside Night City—burned in her chest. This was her second chance to protect what mattered, to ensure the same mistakes weren't repeated. 

For Allfather. For the mission. For my redemption.

For Honour, For Justice, For Texas.

May his will be done. 

---

Pov: David Martinez 

Pacifica

Pacifica was alive in ways most places in Night City weren't. Not alive like corpo plazas with their sterile lights and endless chrome. No, this was a different kind of alive—messy, chaotic, desperate.

Gunshots cracked in the distance, a dull rhythm that blended with the shouts of street vendors hawking everything from preem tech scraps to bootleg meds. Kids darted between crumbling buildings, barefoot and laughing, while a rocket shot up from the corner of my eye, taking out a Maxtac AV mid-flight. It spiraled down, a flaming heap of metal, before slamming into the street. Scavs were on it before the fire even started dying down.

I stepped over a pile of burnt-out casings, my eyes catching on a group huddled around a makeshift altar. Candles flickered, casting eerie shadows as they chanted in Creole. It wasn't just words—it was raw, desperate energy, a prayer to something they still believed could save them.

They hold on to faith here, I thought, watching them out of the corner of my eye. Even when everything else has gone to shit. Night City would eat them alive, but here… here they make it work.

Behind me, Rebecca and Sasha followed close, both on edge.

"You're awful quiet, Becs," I said over my shoulder, keeping my voice low. "Something up?"

"Not quiet, choom," Rebecca shot back. "Just... don't like this place. Feels like a fraggin' ghost town, but the ghosts are packin' heat."

Sasha chuckled. "Ghosts, huh? Didn't know you were the superstitious type."

Rebecca side-eyed her. "Call it what you want, but this place ain't right. Too many shadows, not enough light."

Pacifica felt alive in the way only a place on the verge of collapse could. It thrummed with a chaotic energy, a strange rhythm of resilience and decay. The streets were cracked and pockmarked, every pothole a reminder that no corpo had ever cared enough to fix them.

Shanty stalls lined the sidewalks, patched together with scrap metal and dreams, hawking everything from black-market preemware to questionable street food. The air was thick with the smell of fried oil, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of burnt circuitry.

Kids darted between the shadows, their laughter cutting through the sporadic staccato of gunfire in the distance. They carried makeshift soccer balls, weaving between old-world cars that hadn't run in decades.

Somewhere ahead, a Maxtac AV screamed through the sky, trailing smoke, only to be brought down in a fiery explosion by the scav gangs who ruled this patch of the city. The locals barely glanced at it.

Pacifica didn't flinch.

I adjusted my grip on the dolly carrying our cargo—a slumped figure, bound and gagged, their head bristling with wires like a deranged porcupine.

The Netrunner wasn't a small fry; they were a Night Watch Netrunner, the type to keep hush and leave you cold, and right now, they were our ticket to survival. I felt the weight of their presence, not just in the physical sense, but in the way Sasha and Rebecca kept looking over their shoulders.

Rebecca's voice broke the tension, loud and brash as always. "Choom, you really think this is gonna work? Voodoo Boys ain't exactly the type to play fair."

"Fair's not part of the equation," I replied, scanning the alley ahead. "They want the Netrunner; we're delivering. That's all."

She snorted, kicking a stray can down the sidewalk. "Sure, and when they double-cross us? What's the plan then?"

I didn't answer. Truth was, I didn't have a plan—not for that, anyway. Pacifica wasn't a place you walked into with guarantees.

The Netrunner groaned softly, their head lolling to the side. Sasha leaned in, her voice low. "You think they're still alive in there? Feels like we're dragging dead weight."

"They're alive," I said, my tone sharper than I intended. "Focus on the job."

We moved deeper into the district, the crumbling façade of Batty's Hotel looming ahead. It was more fortress than hotel now, a skeletal structure reinforced with neon and veves, its walls crawling with graffiti and old-world tech spliced into new. The faint glow of glyphs etched into the concrete pulsed like a heartbeat.

Placide was waiting for us outside, his massive frame silhouetted against the flickering lights. He looked as though he'd been carved from the same concrete as the hotel—hard, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.

"You're late," he said, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the air like distant thunder.

"Traffic," I replied, my tone deliberately flippant. I tilted the dolly toward him. "Here's your package. Like we agreed."

Placide's eyes flicked to the Netrunner, then back to me. He didn't move. Didn't speak. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

"Something wrong?" I asked, meeting his gaze.

"You walk into Pacifica, make demand? Foolish," he said, his accent thick, each word weighed down with disdain.

Rebecca barked a laugh. "You don't know foolish, big guy. Try watching this choom throw himself through a convoy. Twice."

"Shut it, Becs," I muttered, my focus locked on Placide.

"Inside," he said finally, gesturing toward the hotel. "We talk there."

"No need," I said. "We can do this here. Out in the open."

Placide's lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was no humor in it. "You think you have choice?"

The tension ratcheted up, thick enough to choke on. Sasha's hand drifted toward her pistol, and I saw Rebecca's fingers twitch, itching to grab her shotgun.

"Fine," I said, stepping forward. "Lead the way."

The interior of Batty's Hotel was a maze of wires and shadows. The veves glowed brighter here, their patterns crawling across the walls like living things. The air buzzed with static, the hum of servers and tech pieced together from a dozen different eras.

Placide stopped in the center of the room, turning to face me. His eyes locked onto mine, cold and calculating. "You trust too easy," he said, his voice low.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" I shot back.

He didn't reply. Instead, he moved suddenly, faster than I expected, a cable snapping out from his wrist toward my neck port.

The second it connected, I felt it—a flood of foreign code trying to breach my neural network. But the nanites in my blood reacted instantly, surging to life with a heat that burned through the intrusion.

Placide staggered back, clutching his head, a guttural scream tearing from his throat.

"What the hell?" Rebecca shouted, her shotgun already in her hands.

Sasha was faster, her pistol trained on the shadows as figures emerged—Voodoo Boys, their weapons raised.

The first shot rang out, and all hell broke loose.

I felt the bullet hit my chest, but it didn't slow me down. The nanites hardened under my skin, absorbing the impact. I didn't think; I moved, faster than I thought possible. The first ganger went down before he could react, my fist slamming into his jaw with enough force to crack bone.

Rebecca was firing, her laughter echoing through the chaos even as blood dripped down her arm. Sasha moved like a shadow, her shots precise, calculated.

But there were too many of them.

And soon Rebecca got hit, her smile quickly removed by a sniper shot through the shoulder. 

When I saw her eyes bulge... I couldn't hold back.

I snapped.

The nanites surged again, hotter this time, angrier. My vision blurred, the edges tinged with red. I didn't just fight—I tore through them, my hands a blur of destruction. They screamed. They ran. It didn't matter.

The room fell silent, the air thick with the stench of blood and burnt wiring.

I ripped and teared until nothing was left. 

I went through walls...

People...

It didn't matter, they all had to die.

But It wasn't just that, I wanted them to feel pain. 

I intentionally kept em alive, and broke their legs.

Ripped their arms.

Gonks deserved it, they all did.

And then he appeared.

The Judge moved through the aftermath like a spectre, his black armour absorbing the dim light. He didn't speak, didn't hesitate. He dispatched the remaining Voodoo Boys with a precision that bordered on mechanical.

It was quick, efficient... It was unnatural. 

Had the Doc not given me info on the Texans I wouldn't even know who he belonged to. Corps ran often and with the gear he was hauling one would think Militech or Arasaka. 

When it was over, he turned to Rebecca, kneeling beside her to patch up her wound with quick, efficient movements.

I stood there, my fists still clenched, the nanites humming in my veins. "Who are you?" I demanded, my voice harsher than I intended.

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his belt and pulled out a blade, its black surface etched with glowing symbols. He handed it to me without a word.

Before I could ask, a distorted voice came through his helmet. "Your job here is done, boy. Return to Watson. The Doctor will contact you."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving us alone in the ruins of Batty's Hotel.