The man in black didn't rush. He didn't need to.
He walked toward the Bentley the way a predator approached something already trapped—slowly, confidently, with the kind of patience that made fear grow teeth.
And the closer he came, the more Ethan understood one thing:
This was not the same kind of Black-clothed officer he had seen before.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thick through the chest, the black trench coat on his body stretched tight enough to suggest brute strength even without movement. His hair was closely shaven, practical and military. On the left side of his chest, beneath the Double-Headed Eagle insignia, sat a blue hexagram badge.
A rank marker.
Ethan memorized it instantly.
The man's face was even more memorable.
His brows and lashes were so pale they were almost colorless, making the whites of his eyes stand out too much. It gave him an unnatural look, as though there was always something cold and watchful peering out from behind his smile. And that smile…
It didn't belong on a law officer.
It belonged on a butcher.
A thick knife scar ran from the left side of his neck to the corner of his mouth, ugly and raised, like some grotesque insect crawling across his skin. It twisted his grin into something savage.
Ethan did not activate Data Perspective.
Not even for a second.
The last time he'd almost done that in front of one of these men, the reaction had been close enough to danger that he'd broken himself of the habit. Unless absolutely necessary, he would not use the Hacker Chip to inspect someone from the General Affairs Department.
No unnecessary risks.
Not with monsters like this.
Still, Ethan kept his breathing steady.
So far, he and Sophia Warren should look like what they were pretending to be—two ordinary civilians unlucky enough to be caught near a shootout. If that was all this was, there might be a few questions, a few polite warnings, and then they'd be allowed to leave.
That was the calculation.
Then the Black-clothed man glanced at the red Bentley's plate.
His eyes shifted to Sophia.
"Is this your father Marcus Warren's car?"
Sophia visibly stiffened.
"Are you his daughter, Sophia Warren?"
"I… yes. I'm Sophia."
The reaction was immediate.
The middle-aged man's face lit up, as if he had just run into family at a reunion.
"You really are Brother Marcus's daughter?" His grin widened. "I didn't expect you to be this beautiful."
He placed one hand on his chest in a mock-polite gesture.
"My name is Grant Wolfe. I used to work under your father. I just returned from the military zone. I'm currently serving as a sergeant major in the General Affairs Department."
Then, in the same warm, almost familiar tone, he asked, "How has your father been recently?"
Sophia blinked, caught completely off balance.
"Hello, Uncle Grant… My father is… fine. He hasn't been sick in a long time."
Her voice was steady enough, but Ethan felt it anyway—the tension in her body, the slight tremor in her fingers, the effort it took her not to overreact.
He didn't blame her.
A minute ago, this man had crushed a speeding car like it was made of paper.
Now he was smiling and chatting like a family friend.
That kind of contrast was more terrifying than open violence.
Ethan, standing slightly to the side, couldn't interrupt. He simply kept recording details.
Sergeant major.
How many of those did the General Affairs Department have?
One per city?
One per district?
Or was that just local cover for something bigger?
Then Grant Wolfe's expression changed.
It happened so fast that it felt unnatural.
The warmth vanished. The friendliness drained away.
His gaze locked onto Sophia like a knife.
"Why are you nervous?"
Sophia's lips parted.
She clearly hadn't expected the shift.
The pressure hit all at once. Ethan saw it in her face—the sudden loss of color, the way her shoulders tightened, the way her thoughts visibly stumbled.
"I… I'm not nervous."
Grant Wolfe tilted his head.
"No," he said softly. "You are."
The softness made it worse.
"You're trying to hide something."
That was when Ethan understood exactly what kind of man he was dealing with.
Not a blunt instrument.
Not just muscle.
This man was a hunter.
A real one.
Tiger in strength. Wolf in instinct.
He had that terrifying animal sensitivity that could smell fear, track weakness, and tear into hesitation before a person even realized they'd exposed it.
Sophia saw it too.
For a split second, the "Uncle Grant" in front of her disappeared.
In his place stood something wearing a man's face.
Her pulse was practically audible in the silence.
And just as her composure was beginning to crack, Ethan moved.
He stepped in slightly and raised an arm between them, blocking Grant Wolfe's direct line of sight.
"She's just scared, Uncle Grant."
Ethan smiled easily, as if nothing about this moment was abnormal.
"You jumping off a building like that just now almost scared us to death."
He let out a short laugh.
"How did you even do it? Some kind of military tech?"
Grant Wolfe's head turned toward him.
The movement was sharp.
Predatory.
He looked Ethan over slowly.
At this point, the blood on Ethan's forehead had already dried into a dark streak. But his face remained calm. No panic. No visible fear. Just a young man trying to smooth over an awkward situation.
At the same time, Ethan gently took Sophia's hand.
Not too tightly.
Just enough.
The detail did not escape Grant Wolfe.
A few silent seconds passed.
Then the oppressive weight in the air eased.
His smile returned.
The darkness receded as if it had never been there.
"Little classmate," he said pleasantly, "what's your name?"
"Ethan."
"Good name."
Grant Wolfe nodded once, then glanced toward the wrecked street behind him.
"You're right. What you saw was military high-tech."
His voice took on an almost conversational rhythm, as if they were discussing some new product release instead of a man smashing through a fleeing car with his own body.
"Times have changed. If you're interested, you can apply to the General Affairs Department too."
He smiled wider.
"We always welcome talented young people."
Ethan smiled back, matching the tone perfectly.
"I'm interested. But is the work always this dangerous?"
That earned a low chuckle.
"The Department has many branches. Different jobs. Different assignments."
He pointed toward the military jeep where his men were loading the unconscious robbers into the back.
"But our core function remains the same—maintain social stability and capture dangerous individuals."
Then he added, with the strangest hint of amusement, "Our line of work is a little like sales. The better our arrest performance, the higher the bonuses and titles."
Ethan's smile didn't move.
But something inside him went cold.
So it was true.
The General Affairs Department hunted Players.
Systematically.
Professionally.
And they were rewarded for it.
"That sounds…" Ethan paused just long enough to seem impressed. "Pretty interesting."
Grant Wolfe laughed.
Sophia said nothing.
Her hand was damp in Ethan's.
He could still feel the faint tremble in her fingers.
They exchanged a few more casual words after that, and little by little, Grant Wolfe's suspicion appeared to fade. Or perhaps he simply decided the two of them weren't worth acting on yet.
Either way, after one last glance at their joined hands, he seemed ready to leave.
"Well then," he said, "I won't keep you two."
His smile deepened with something that could have been teasing, if not for the scar twisting his mouth into something ugly.
"Go get Ethan's wound treated."
Then he turned his attention to Sophia.
"In a few days, I'll personally visit your father, Brother Marcus."
Sophia nodded so quickly it was almost painful to watch.
"Okay, Uncle Grant."
"Youth really is wonderful." Grant Wolfe clicked his tongue, eyes lingering briefly on their hands. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Then he turned, climbed into the military jeep, and shut the door.
A moment later, the engine roared, and the black vehicle rolled down the street and disappeared into the night.
Only when its taillights vanished did Sophia finally exhale.
The tension left her all at once.
She slumped back into her seat like someone whose strings had just been cut.
"Thank you… Ethan."
Only then did she realize their hands were still clasped together.
A blush crept onto her face as she carefully pulled her hand back, trying to do it quietly enough that it wouldn't feel like a big moment.
Ethan let her.
He barely noticed.
His mind was already elsewhere, moving fast.
Chewing over every word Grant Wolfe had said.
Every inflection.
Every hint.
His guess had been right.
The General Affairs Department's job really was to capture Players like them.
But why?
Why go to such lengths?
Why deploy this much force?
Why control information so tightly and sweep through the Federation city by city?
And most importantly—
Why did they seem to value Players alive?
In most of the cases Ethan had seen, they didn't execute them on the spot. They subdued them. Took them away. Preserved them.
Why?
The answer was somewhere close.
He could feel it.
And Grant Wolfe almost certainly knew part of it.
For one dangerous moment, Ethan considered the possibility of getting closer to him. Not directly, not recklessly—but close enough to gather real information.
Then he dismissed the idea at once.
Too dangerous.
Grant Wolfe was not someone you approached.
He was the kind of man who smiled while memorizing your pulse, then tore out your throat the second you slipped.
Cunning.
Vicious.
Sensitive.
Suspicious.
A true alpha predator surrounded by other killers.
One wrong move near him and Ethan wouldn't just lose—he would vanish.
No.
Grant Wolfe could only be observed from a distance.
Never approached.
Never trusted.
"Should I take you to the hospital?" Sophia asked softly, glancing at the wound on his forehead.
There was guilt in her voice.
Ethan had been cut protecting her.
"No need." Ethan shook his head. "I've got a first-aid kit at home."
He gave her the address.
A few minutes later, the Bentley stopped in front of his apartment building.
Sophia stared at the old, dim structure rising in stained concrete and shadow, surprise flickering across her face.
"You live here?"
Then, before she could stop herself, she added, "Do people still live in buildings like this?"
Ethan let out a short laugh.
"Of course they do, Miss Warren."
He opened the door and stepped out.
But before leaving, he leaned down slightly and spoke through the window.
"Hide your identity carefully."
Sophia straightened at once.
"And don't stay too tense all the time. The more nervous you are in daily life, the easier you are to notice."
He looked at her steadily.
"The best thing you can do is split your attention. Forget you're a Player when you're living your normal life. Stay natural."
Sophia nodded immediately.
"I understand."
She engraved every word into memory.
As expected of Ethan.
As expected of the man she still insisted, deep down, on seeing as the leader of Wildfire.
Calm. Sharp. Prepared.
Everything she wasn't.
She watched him head into the building before finally driving away.
---
The corridor leading to Room 407 was dim and smelled faintly of dust, damp concrete, and old wiring.
Ethan stepped inside, locked the door, took out the first-aid kit, and moved straight to the sink.
The cut on his forehead looked worse than it was. The windshield had shattered violently, but thankfully none of the glass had lodged deep in his skin.
Simple treatment would do.
He washed the wound clean with water, letting the dried blood run pink into the basin. Then he disinfected it with alcohol, jaw tightening against the sting, and wrapped it in breathable gauze.
That should have been enough.
But Ethan didn't leave the mirror.
He stayed there, hands braced against the sink, staring at his own reflection.
Outside, the city continued moving.
Inside, his thoughts narrowed.
"The General Affairs Department is tightening control faster than expected…"
Black-clothed men weren't just raiding campuses now. They were on the streets. Acting openly. Moving fast. And Grant Wolfe himself was leading operations.
"The space left for Players is shrinking."
Most people still hadn't realized it.
They were already prey.
Ethan thought of the robbers from earlier—the two Players among them in particular.
He could practically reconstruct their logic.
They had entered Night City, gained power, tasted enhancement, and decided they could use it to get rich fast.
For a brief moment, they probably felt invincible.
Then they met Grant Wolfe.
And that was the end.
There had to be more like them.
A lot more.
But the General Affairs Department had suppressed online communication so efficiently that Players had almost no way to find each other, warn each other, or compare notes.
Even as the Black-clothed men quietly harvested them across the city, most people remained ignorant.
Blind.
Isolated.
Waiting to be found.
"Unless someone breaks the network blockade and broadcasts the truth to everyone…"
Ethan muttered it aloud and immediately dismissed the thought.
He ran the scenario through his head anyway.
Could the Militech Horizon do it?
Technically?
Maybe.
Realistically?
Almost impossible.
What he had was E-grade cyberware.
What stood against him was the full machinery of the General Affairs Department.
Trying to send out a worldwide warning would be like using a candle to challenge a floodlight.
And even if he somehow succeeded, the cost would be insane.
The moment he lit that torch, he'd be revealing himself to the entire world.
Not just to Players.
To the hunters too.
They would find him in minutes.
And Ethan still had Lily.
Still had responsibilities.
Still had reasons not to die pointlessly.
"Only a lunatic like Johnny Silverhand would do something like that…"
He muttered the words while reaching, absentmindedly, toward the table.
His fingers found a cigarette.
He lifted it.
Put it in his mouth.
Lit it.
Took a drag.
Then froze.
The cigarette dropped from his lips.
He stared at it as if it were a snake.
"What the hell…?"
His pupils shrank.
He didn't smoke.
He never smoked.
Never.
So why—
Why had there been cigarettes in his room?
Why had he reached for one without thinking?
Why had the motion felt natural?
A chill climbed his spine.
Johnny Silverhand.
That bastard was a chain-smoker.
"Damn it…"
Ethan covered his face with one hand, breathing hard. The force of the motion reopened the wound on his forehead. Fresh blood trickled down into the corner of his eye.
He didn't care.
He crushed the cigarette beneath his heel.
Hard.
Again.
Again.
Until it was nothing but a black smear.
Then he returned to the mirror and replaced the gauze with steady, practiced hands.
When he looked at himself again, the face in the reflection felt faintly unfamiliar.
Not because it wasn't his.
Because it might not stay his.
The realization hit harder than any bullet.
Everything else suddenly became secondary.
Grant Wolfe.
The General Affairs Department.
City lockdowns.
Network blockades.
Wildfire.
All of it.
If he couldn't solve Johnny Silverhand, none of the rest mattered.
If Johnny replaced him, then Ethan would die long before his body did.
Tyler would lose a brother.
Seabrook University District would lose one of its best students.
The money Ethan had saved would become fuel for some mad revolutionary fantasy.
And Lily—
Lily would lose the last family she had left in the world.
Ethan gritted his teeth.
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Parasite."
He grabbed the bottle of white liquor he had bought earlier and took two huge swallows.
The burn was savage.
He welcomed it.
Rebecca had said alcohol could suppress Johnny's invasion, at least temporarily.
So Ethan drank more.
Then he opened the internet and began searching everything he could about Nine Lotus Mountain.
Routes.
Travel times.
Temple records.
Master Faming.
Anything.
Tomorrow, he would leave.
No delays.
No excuses.
No hesitation.
Johnny Silverhand had to be erased.
Everything else could wait.
--------------------------------
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