Cyberpunk: 2075

The 6th Street Gang was born from the anger of American war veterans after the Fourth Corporate War, frustrated with the NCPD's prolonged inaction. They claimed to bring "justice to the city," but in practice, their actions were no different from any other gang. With approximately 2,300 members, Oliver was one of their newest recruits, having joined less than a week ago.

As a rookie, Oliver shouldn't have been accompanying his squad leader into Watson. Everyone knew the 6th Street Gang generally respected other gangs' territories, preferring to defend their stronghold in Santo Domingo and rarely venturing into other districts. However, this time was different. A crucial shipment of smuggled firearms had been stolen while passing through Watson, and Oliver's squad happened to be nearby. As the first team to respond to the situation, they rushed to investigate as soon as they received the call.

Still, for someone as new to the gang as Oliver, the events unfolding now were overwhelming.

Who could have predicted that not long after arriving in Watson's Little China, a simple verbal disagreement would escalate into violence? The Maelstrom members they were negotiating with had opened fire without hesitation. It was too wild. He'd heard that the Maelstrom were a bunch of lunatics who modified themselves into monsters, but seeing them in person… they were even crazier than the rumors suggested.

Oliver's squad had ten members in total. Their leader was shot in the head by a Maelstrom member who drew his gun instantly. In retaliation, before taking cover, Oliver's squad managed to kill four of the Maelstrom gangsters. However, there were thirty of them. Three times their numbers, coupled with those insane cybernetic enhancements, left the 6th Street members—despite their superior military training—unable to even lift their heads.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Oliver cursed inwardly. "I only joined the 6th Street Gang because my dad's in it, and I needed to scrape by. Dad even pulled strings to assign me to a capable squad leader for protection. And now that leader is dead on my very first mission. What the hell is this?!"

If turning your head into a bloody mess counted as a talent, then his late squad leader was certainly talented.

"Thud."

Lost in his thoughts, Oliver was startled by the sound of a teammate collapsing beside him. A bullet had struck the man, leaving him twitching on the ground for a moment before going still.

"F**!"*

Oliver quickly scanned his surroundings. While he'd been caught up in his mental ramblings, their squad had been whittled down to fewer than four members.

Where's the NCPD? The cops? Don't tell me they can't hear all this gunfire! Someone come save us!

Oliver wanted to run. Desperately. But he knew the consequences of turning his back on the enemy, let alone abandoning his teammates. The former would likely result in immediate death, but the latter? If the gang found out, it wouldn't just mean death—it would be far worse. Not even his father's modest status in the 6th Street Gang would be enough to save him.

According to gang rules, anyone who abandoned their comrades would be tied up and handed over to the families of those they'd betrayed. The punishment was brutal: the traitor's jaw would be slowly shaved away with a razor, from pink to red to white.

Oliver had read about "scraping bones to treat poison" in a book once. It had been described as a heroic act. But he had no intention of experiencing it firsthand.

"Bang."

It's over. I'm dead.

As Oliver braced himself for the worst, he realized the gunshot hadn't come from the Maelstrom's direction. Instead, it sounded like it came from their flank.

"Bang! Bang! Pop-pop-pop!"

In the chaotic burst of gunfire, Oliver's sharp eyes noticed four of the Maelstrom members collapse instantly. The unexpected attack threw them into disarray. Panicked, they shouted and forgot about the 6th Street Gang entirely. Several of them even stood up, abandoning their cover as they scrambled to find new positions.

"These guys are nuts."

Oliver fired decisively. Thanks to the marksmanship training he'd received from his father since childhood, each bullet found its mark. After a few shots, several more Maelstrom members collapsed.

"Who the hell are these people? Are there really that many 6th Street bastards?!"

"Bang!"

The loudest, most obnoxious Maelstrom member, who had been shouting incessantly, was shot in the head—even though he was behind cover.

"F***! Is that a smart weapon? Kang Tao tech?!"

As the Maelstrom members shouted in panic, Carl was silently calculating the remaining bullets in his mind.

The Lexington pistol in his hand had a magazine capacity of 21 rounds. So far, he had fired six shots, taking down five Maelstrom members.

As for how Carl, who had never fired a gun before, managed such an impressive result on his first attempt, the only explanation he could offer was: hacks exist for a reason.

After firing the first shot, his mind had instantly stored all relevant data about the gun—ballistics, wind direction, temperature, and other variables. By the time he took the second shot, it was as if he had an auto-lock system. The moment he raised his hand and pulled the trigger, he already knew where the bullet would land.

It felt similar to locking onto a target in a video game, pointing and shooting wherever he wanted. No, it felt even smoother than that.

The sixth shot, which used a ricochet to take out a Maelstrom member hiding behind cover, was part of an experiment Carl conducted. And just as he'd anticipated, it worked.

Watching heads explode under the barrel of his gun didn't evoke any adverse reaction from Carl. If anything, he had already decided to send these bastards to hell for disrupting his breakfast.

Carl was adapting faster than he had anticipated. Not everyone could start killing people within thirty minutes of transmigrating—let alone take out five in a single breath. Even the lesser demons in hell who failed to collect souls would likely worship him as their idol.

Crouched behind a trash bin, listening to the thud-thud sounds of bullets pounding the garbage-filled container, Carl couldn't help but feel an odd affinity for trash—both literal and figurative.

The recoil of the kinetic weapon was a bit intense. Even though Carl had been careful to grip the gun with both hands, his hands were now numb from the vibrations. Fortunately, the slight tingling sensation was already being adjusted in his memory and didn't hinder him from eliminating those bastards.

"I'll definitely need to learn proper shooting stances and evasive maneuvers someday," he thought.

The battlefield between the Maelstrom and 6th Street gangs didn't offer much cover. While one-on-one firefights might have been manageable, facing two opponents at once left the Maelstrom members as exposed as if they were walking naked down the street. By the time Carl's gunfire ceased, all 30-plus Maelstrom members had fallen to the ground.

Of the 6th Street crew, only Oliver remained alive.

Carl's lingering anger had finally subsided.

The conflict was over. The situation was resolved.