Chapter 57: An Uncommon Act of Kindness

Partying. Recuperating.
After every big job, a few days of downtime were a must.

Watson District. A Megabuilding. Arthur’s apartment.
Empty liquor bottles, half-smoked cigars, and a spilled instant meal box cluttered the floor.

Though the sun was already climbing—close to ten—the apartment remained dark, its windows sealed tight.
In the corner, a single bed rattled with the heavy snore that shook dust loose from the air.

“Ding—ding—”
A sharp ringing pierced through.

An arm shot up irritably, as if to swat the noise away.
“Ding—”
“Mmm...”

The motion toppled Arthur out of bed. He hit the floor with a muffled groan.
“Damn it...”

Rubbing his head, he steadied himself against the bedframe and sat up, bleary-eyed.
“Ding—”

Ah. The sound wasn’t in the room—it was in his head.

Without even checking who it was, he answered.
“What a beautiful morning... I mean, if it weren’t for this call.”

“Arthur, correction: it’s eleven a.m., not morning.”

The voice on the other end was instantly familiar.
“V! For me, it’s always morning until I wake up.”

Staggering upright, Arthur shook his throbbing head. He dragged himself toward the bathroom, clattering into every bit of junk in his path.

“What do you want, lady?
You’re the corpo bigwig. We’re not the same crowd.
Don’t tell me you’ve got another dirty job lined up for me.”

He splashed hot water onto his face, finally regaining a hint of clarity.

“You could say that—but it’s personal. Forget explaining here. Just come down. I’m waiting.”

V cut the line before he could reply.

At the mirror, Arthur scrubbed his stiff, hungover face with both hands. Then, with a hard kick, he shoved the clutter aside from his wardrobe.

He threw on a coarse tan overcoat, grabbed his hat, and headed out the door.

Watson had no shortage of people. Among the noisy crowd below, Arthur spotted V.

“What’s this about? You gonna tell me now?”

She was sitting on a roadside bench, drawing more than a few passing glances—most of them from men.

“Come on. We’ll talk in the car.”

As Arthur approached, V stood up and strode toward the street.

The same silver-white Herrera Outlaw GTS waited there, its row of rear air intakes like a shark’s gills. With a deep growl, the car shot onto Watson’s main road in a white blur.

Arthur ran his hand along the crimson leather interior, nodding.
“Looks the part.”
He smirked.
“Made from turkey butt skin?”

“Enough, Arthur. Let’s talk business.”

Sunlight glinted off her shades, reflecting the world outside.
“Remember that monster?”

Arthur knew exactly what she meant—the one in the CHOOH₂ plant’s underground lab that nearly butchered them.
“What? If you’re feeling nostalgic, go sift through the ashes.”

“You shot it in the head. Remember?”

Ignoring his snark, V pressed on.
“That bullet pierced two heads. Did you know?
Two brains, stitched together inside that deformed sack of flesh.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. His fingers drummed on the window frame.
“So what? You saying I killed two people?
In that moment, I couldn’t exactly let it live.”

He stared at the blur of streets outside.
“They were the brains of a mother and daughter.”

V’s eyes stayed hidden behind her oversized glasses, but her voice carried no cheer—only restrained anger.

“During the Central Hub run, their security protocols cornered me. Forced a daemon into my head.
That daemon was a memory—the moment that mother and daughter were captured.

“They were sold out by two scumbags. And I plan to find them.”

Arthur studied her for a moment before muttering,
“Didn’t expect you to stick your nose in things like this. Thought your head was full of nothing but climbing ladders.”

The modded Outlaw GTS roared on, devouring the road. Soon, they’d left Watson behind and were headed south into Santo Domingo.

Arroyo. A place of harsh contrasts.
Shiny modern factories beside junkyards.
Even an abandoned nuclear plant, its radiation maybe mutating locals with gills.

Through a narrow tunnel, they reached a workers’ neighborhood—exhausted faces, drained by endless grind.

“The mother worked at a robotics factory.
With her meager pay, she kept her daughter in a decent school.
And the people we’re after—were their neighbors.”

The car screeched to a stop, dust kicking up.

A small mechanic’s shop stood before them, the pungent stench of oil filling Arthur’s nose. He didn’t mind—it beat cattle dung by miles.

No sooner had they stepped out than a plump man waddled over, hands and arms black with grease, clothes caked in stains.

He smiled warmly, his beady eyes fixed on V.
“Seeing a Herrera Outlaw GTS outside my shop? That’ll keep me up for a month.”

He rubbed his hands together, flattery written all over his face.

“Do we look like we’re here for a tune-up?”

Arthur’s voice came low from behind V.

The man froze, then laughed awkwardly.
“Don’t joke around, friends. What else would you come to a mechanic for?”

But V’s gaze never left the shack next door—two stories of ragged corrugated iron, rough edges showing.

A tall, thin man stepped out, still wearing a tool on his hand from work.

“We’re here for the two who live next door.”

V pointed at the tin shack.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The fat man’s expression flickered, but he waved it off with forced ease.
“That dump? Been abandoned for years.”

Behind him, the skinny one’s jaw tightened. His tone came sharp and harsh.
“If you’re not here for business, get lost!
I don’t have time for rich folk playing house.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to the bulge at the man’s waist. He waited.

“Nobody?”

The fury in V’s voice was almost too much to contain. The moment it slipped, she had her pistol out.

“Think playing dumb is funny? Fuck you, scum.”

A gunshot cracked. The fat man dropped with a bullet in his forehead.

“Idiot. Keep pretending in hell.”

The tall man fumbled at his waist, caught between begging and threatening.
“Don’t kill me! It wasn’t my idea.
You… I’ll kill you both...”

Confronted with two people holding all the power, his bravado collapsed.
There were no demons here—just two ordinary people. They might even have done good once.

“But you did take the money, didn’t you?”

Arthur drew his revolver. A shot blasted through the man’s elbow.

He screamed, clutching the joint, thrashing in agony on the dirt.

“I wonder—did that girl scream this loud when they hurt her?”

V pressed her barrel to his forehead.

“Ahh—don’t kill me—it wasn’t me! It was the fat one! Not me!”

His pupils trembled as he stared down the barrel, his head shaking like a leaf.

...