"Take out the king to break the castle." Placide might not know the proverb, but he did understand one thing clearly: among all enemies present, KK was the most dangerous. And as the Voodoo Boys' top enforcer, it was only natural that he would face him head-on.
Why attack the moment KK's team revealed themselves and refused the job?
That question never even crossed Placide's mind. Even a fool could tell KK's crew hadn't come with friendly intentions. Now that their goal was obvious, what was he supposed to do—wait for KK to make the first move and get himself killed?
Like most heavy hitters in Night City, Placide had studied footage of KK's combat style—though only a fraction of it was authentic, the rest likely fan edits or imitators. Still, he'd formed a tactical summary in his own crude way.
KK was a sharpshooter, deadly in close quarters with a monowire. He likely had a Kerenzikov or Sandevistan installed, moved like a blur, and possessed netrunning capabilities. Against such a complete, well-rounded threat, only a preemptive strike had any hope of success.
You had to kill him before he activated.
If he had even a second to react, it wouldn't matter if you were on the level of Adam Smasher—KK would still tear you apart.
This was the consensus among everyone who had ever studied KK's battles: surprise was the only chance.
But if they knew that—of course Karl knew it too.
Whoever moves first in a fight controls the field. Whether to strike or retreat, initiative wins wars. It was practically a law of combat.
And yet… Karl didn't move.
He stood perfectly still as Placide lunged forward, like he hadn't even noticed.
"KK isn't reacting!"
Placide's heart surged with excitement. Even when both sides had speedware, whoever activated first gained a moment's edge—a moment long enough to decide the winner.
To ensure that edge, he hadn't drawn a gun. He'd brought a weapon he trusted more than anything: a butcher's cleaver—the same one he used to slaughter animals.
It had been forged from premium alloys. Bone or flesh, it didn't matter. This blade cut through both like tofu.
Now it was inches from Karl's throat—and still, Karl didn't move.
But his eyes did.
They turned, locking onto Placide's.
In that brief moment, their gazes met.
And in Karl's eyes, there was nothing but calm. As if Placide's swing—mere seconds from decapitating him—wasn't even worth acknowledging.
Before Placide could process the meaning of that stare, a blade crashed into his cleaver from the side.
CLANG—!
The sharp clang of metal rang out, and Karl frowned. "You're late, V."
"Sorry, Karl. You know how it is—playing Lucy means I've gotta hunch down in oversized clothes or the proportions look off. Just finished stretching and drew the blade."
Despite the quip, V's eyes were fixed on Placide.
Now gripping the cleaver with both hands, Placide pushed down with all his might against V's katana, slowly forcing it lower.
"This guy's strong. I'll need a bit more time."
"You shouldn't have gone one-handed after deflecting the blade," Karl said. "You should really get some strength enhancers installed. Once I'm back in the tank, let's hit up Viktor together."
"I was thinking of trying supplements instead. I wanna enter a boxing tournament—like Jack says, gotta prove to Vik I can still win without cyberarms."
V switched to a two-handed grip, adjusting his stance. With a sharp motion, he shifted the angle, causing Placide's cleaver to scrape and slide down the katana's edge.
Sensing his balance failing, Placide activated his jump boosters to forcibly shift his momentum and leap away.
The movement was jarring. He felt a tearing sensation rip through his leg muscles. But it saved his life.
V had been seconds away from cleaving his head clean off. The awkward leap, though painful, had thrown off her timing.
What the hell was that move?
A sidestep? A... horizontal dodge?
"His actuator's twisted. Soft tissue damage too," Karl noted. "His power leg's done."
Karl had pulled a similar maneuver once—against Adam Smasher, no less. But in his case, it was a calculated system override after deactivation. Placide, on the other hand, had forced his cybernetics into a position they weren't built for. The damage wasn't just different—it was catastrophic.
And now, with his leg fried, Placide had lost his only edge against V.
Around them, the other Voodoo Boys had already been dropped—some shot down by Jack, others knocked out cold by Oliver's fists.
Desperate, Placide tried to open a line to his boss—he had to warn her, tell her to evacuate.
Too bad for him, severing comms before striking was KK Squad's specialty.
When he realized his signal wasn't getting through, Placide triggered his Sandevistan again, hoping to scream and get someone's attention.
But V didn't give him the chance.
In Night City, V had become known as a literal angel of death. And if there was one thing he did "mercifully"—
—it was how fast he killed.
So fast, in fact, that by the time the thermally charged katana took your head off, your brain still hadn't caught up.
"Voodoo Boys? That's it?"
That was the last thing Placide heard before the world went black.
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