Chapter 3

In Jig-Jig Street—Japantown's red-light district modeled after pleasure quarters and entertainment zones—the densely packed area stood out even within this famously Japan-inspired tourist destination.

Nobody in these parts was unfamiliar with Wakako Okada, the fixer who operated from an office in one corner of Jig-Jig Street. She was also renowned as the shadow operator of the Tyger Claws, the gang that controlled Westbrook with Japantown at its core.

New recruits joining the Tyger Claws first learned the ropes of nightlife on Jig-Jig Street—and along the way, they picked up some hard lessons. The gang had its share of easygoing seniors and old-school strict ones, but there was one rite of passage every recruit went through.

Until recently, they'd have to trek all the way to Watson's distant ripperdocs, but now, the initiation took place at Gracker, a Tyger Claws-affiliated clinic near Jig-Jig Street's entrance, where they'd receive a subcutaneous implant.

Brought to the doorstep by a senior and ordered to get the procedure, rookies would gulp nervously at the sight of the clinic's exclusive sign before sitting in the waiting room. Then, they'd hear the voice of a surprisingly young girl and soon meet the prodigy ripperdoc who'd become the talk of the industry.

With a flat, soy-sauce-toned face hinting at strong Japanese heritage and glossy black hair in a very short cut, the girl—wearing surgical overalls and an apron, likely for hygiene—looked no older than her early teens. At first glance, anyone would underestimate her.

But those who'd heard about her from well-meaning seniors knew better.

If a rookie, despite their seniority, met her brusque attitude with anger, that would be the end of it. A medical monowire coiled tight around their neck would leave them dazed before they were kicked straight out the door.

Usually, that was when the accompanying senior would explain exactly who this ripperdoc girl—Jugra Kagura—was.

"Listen up. If you're plannin’ to climb the ranks in the Tyger Claws, there are people you never cross. Obviously, there's Wakako-sama—but also her personal ripperdoc, the one you just pissed off: Sis Jugra. The brass respect her eye for talent, and no matter how bad the damage, she’s a god-tier ripper who’ll pull you back from death’s door. The chop-shop hacks deep in Jig-Jig ain’t shit compared to her. Hell, you could scour all of Night City and not find a ripper better than her. So listen—never piss her off. Otherwise, even if you’re wheeled in full of lead, you’ll get booted out like you just saw."

"Uh… s-sure. Uh… has that actually happened?"

"...Yeah. Once. Her old man was the previous ripperdoc, and some gonk talked shit about him. Guy came in with bullets in his shoulder and gut. She ‘anesthetized’ him by smashing his face with a giant wrench before tossin’ him out. Gave his wounds a kick on her way back in, too—yelled ‘Don’t you dare disrespect rippers in my clinic, shithead.’"

"Yeesh… what happened to him?"

"...Word got to Wakako-sama. Sent him deep into Jig-Jig. Name’s scrubbed from the books now."

"...I’ll go apologize."

"Smart. She’s big on loyalty and respect—just mind your manners."

Scenes like that were far from rare.

Now, Jugra—whose face every Tyger Claw knew—was in the back of a pachinko parlor, dressed casually in her overalls (minus the surgical apron) and a black tank top.

The office at the back, far too refined for a pachinko joint, exuded the quiet elegance of old Japanese aesthetics. Seated at the desk was Wakako Okada herself, the room’s owner.

And on Wakako’s face was a rare, bright smile—the kind a doting grandmother might wear around a much younger grandchild.

"Sorry for callin’ you out here, Jug."

"...S’fine. If you need me, you come first. You’re a VIP."

"Oh-ho, that’s sweet of ya. Anyway, here’s the thing."

Jugra’s expression remained blank, starkly contrasting Wakako’s cheer.

Ever since her father’s death, Jugra had begun showing her true nature—disinterested in everyone, uncompromising no matter the opponent, volatile as a firecracker in a bottle. Some said her father, Masahiro, had been her external conscience. They weren’t wrong.

Jugra was less a sharp knife and more a vibrating katana—brutal, unpredictable, like a cat lurking in shadows. Yet Wakako never treated her harshly.

The Tyger Claws’ involvement in the incident was one thing, but failing to protect the ripperdoc under her wing was an undeniable stain on Wakako’s record. And if that ripperdoc’s legacy was Jugra? All the more reason to tighten her protection.

Ironically, that very decision had let Wakako witness Jugra’s extraordinary talent as both a ripper and a techie—skills she’d never shown while her father was alive.

Her effortless mastery, as natural as a hawk in flight, hinted at consideration for the father she’d long surpassed.

Hell, the fact that she’d once secretly performed a Santo Domingo ripper’s procedure alone via remote control—just to avoid her father finding out—and succeeded spoke volumes about her genius. She’d even covered the traces with realSkin, leaving no evidence.

"Hey, Jug—you’re turnin’ fourteen, yeah? Thought I’d give ya somethin’ to celebrate."

With that, Wakako handed over a single katana leaning against the wall.

Jugra eyed the "gift" warily—until she drew the blade and froze.

The weapon was unmistakable: a rugged blade with a white tiger-like hamon, designed not for deflecting water but blood. Lacking a tsuba, it embodied the Satsuma school’s hyper-aggressive philosophy—no guard meant no need for hilt-clashing.

Yet near the spine, jagged teeth and an integrated breaker seemed to taunt, "Crush their fangs with skill."

This was Byakko—Wakako’s iconic partner from her heyday, a literal "blade kept close to the heart."

And now it was being casually handed to her.

Caught between shock and the thrill of holding a legend, Jugra could only mutter:

"...This is Byakko?"

"Heh. Know your stuff, huh? Yeah, my old partner-in-crime. At my age, maintenance is a pain. Figured you could use it now."

"You shouldn’t be grinning while handin’ me this… You sure? This is your treasure, Wakako."

"Yep. Precisely why I’m givin’ it to ya. Can’t protect what matters if ya keep it locked away. …Masahiro’s case was my failure. Took too long to track down the culprits. So let me do this."

"...Huh. So you found ’em."

To Wakako, the look in Jugra’s eyes was intimately familiar—and utterly mesmerizing.

A gaze unclouded by anything but pure, distilled killing intent—beyond vengeance, beyond rage.

Darker than twilight, honed through stagnation into something razor-sharp.

It was the same glint Wakako had seen in the fiercest warriors of the Corporate Wars.

And now, it flickered in the eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl.

As a fixer, Wakako was thrilled.

As an old woman, she felt pity.

Because she knew—better than most—exactly how deadly the girl before her was.

When Jugra had accepted the Tyger Claws’ emblem, she’d implanted herself with a dragon-scale dermal weave—not a roaring tiger, but its mythical opposite.

A silent declaration: The clinic flies the Claws’ banner. Not me.

Unlike standard Tyger-branded implants, hers was smart-tech compatible, jam-proofed against friendly fire, and tuned for solo or military use.

She’d even handed Wakako a spec sheet for her cyberware.

The survival-focused internal implants were one thing.

The near-military-grade Santo Domingo mk4 was another.

"The culprits holed up at Buck-a-Slice, a junk shop in Arroyo’s Republic East. Six Street punks. They hit our turf with a half-assed ‘recon raid’—really just a smash-and-grab. Masahiro was there as a customer. They panicked, fled on bikes, and scurried back to their rat’s nest. Took too long to chase ’em thanks to some fixer’s meddling. My apologies, Jug."

"...Nah. Best birthday present ever. But I can’t take this, Wakako. Too heavy—and I’ve got something better."

Jugra slid Byakko back onto the desk and showed Wakako her right wrist.

Mounted there was a monowire launcher—black-market tech, banned for lethality and difficulty to control.

Not the medical-grade version on her left wrist.

This was military.

"Arasaka experimental prototype. Found it floating in the backchannels, cleaned it up, and swapped in analog parts. No external links, unhackable. Faster deployment, higher tensile strength, instant heat-up—melts armored transports like butter. The kind of thing that shouldn’t be used on people."

Wakako had heard rumors of Arasaka’s leaked prototypes.

Seeing one in the flesh confirmed it.

Their R&D division was quietly upgrading black-market tech into military-grade hardware—like they were prepping a candidate for field testing.

There was only one likely recipient:

Adam Smasher.

Arasaka’s attack dog. The "legend" who’d traded his humanity for chrome.

And now, that same tech was grafted onto a teenage girl.

Wakako’s head throbbed.

Every cyberware user danced with the Reaper—cyberpsychosis.

But military prototypes?

They cranked the odds to nightmare levels.

Even decorated soldiers had snapped, reduced to frothing monsters.

"Welp, showtime. I’m headin’ out. Don’t bother sending escorts."

Flashing the tech like a badge, Jugra turned and left.

Wakako followed only to the entrance, watching the girl vanish into a Delamain cab—the safest transport in Night City for those with the creds to afford it.

No Tyger Claws.

No backup.

Jugra was settling this solo.

"...Go wild, Jug. The Tyger Claws ain’t just bark. We chase. We tear. That’s our way."

Wakako struck a flint for good luck, then retreated inside as if nothing had happened.

Of course, the nearby Claws followed anyway.

They’d catch hell from Wakako if they didn’t.

And losing their star ripperdoc wasn’t an option.

Soon, they’d witness the true might of the tech-savvy girl they’d underestimated.