Inside some executive office at Biotechnica Tower.
What was once a pristine workspace had become a warzone—filing cabinets toppled, white papers scattered everywhere.
Monitor screens shattered, glass shards reflecting intermittent flickers and sparks across the floor. Walls riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks from energy weapons, like some abstract violent graffiti.
The only light source came from that stubbornly flickering progress bar on the terminal screen, ghostly blue glow looking especially fragile amid the wreckage.
Outside the window, Night City's never-sleeping neon pollution writhed and flickered like diseased tissue, ruthlessly seeping inside and painting everything with false, unsettling colors.
Sasha huddled behind a heavy metal desk, small frame nearly swallowed by shadow like she was trying to become a forgotten piece of furniture.
Her breathing came quick and shallow, chest heaving violently, each inhale carrying dust and burnt smell.
Sweat plastered hair to her pale forehead.
She clutched Rebecca's plasma pistol—that crude, bulky weapon now burning hot in her grip.
The barrel glowed faintly red from continuous firing, internal energy capacitor emitting that telltale whine of imminent overload, begging for cooldown. The sound like a dying hummingbird's struggle.
On the terminal screen, the progress bar representing data download and upload crawled toward completion at an agonizing pace—ninety-four percent, ninety-five...
Beyond the office's reinforced door came teeth-grinding metal scraping and rhythmic heavy impacts.
Biotechnica security robots using strength-augmented arms or possibly breaching tools, forcing their way through the barrier she'd hastily reinforced with nearby furniture and damaged server racks.
The door already showed obvious dents, edge seals twisted and warped, tiny metal fragments raining down with each impact.
"Come on... just a little faster..." Sasha prayed silently, amber eyes locked on that progress bar like willpower alone could push it forward.
Her other hand unconsciously touched an old, worn holophoto pendant in her jacket's inner pocket.
The only picture of her with Mom and her sister from way back. In it, Mom's smile was gentle but tired—back before she knew the "special painkillers" from Biotechnica she trusted were slowly, irreversibly destroying her life.
Hatred, like buried hot embers meeting oxygen, instantly rekindled into soul-searing flames.
This infiltration mission to steal research data from Biotechnica's core database had started as a routine job.
But while navigating Biotechnica's data fortress, something made her pull up archived records from that painkiller's early clinical trials—files marked "sealed."
Cold numbers and internal assessment reports laid bare a brutal truth: Biotechnica's executives knew before the drug launched that it had serious side effects potentially causing neurodegenerative failure. Yet driven by massive profits and market potential, they chose concealment, falsified data, and rushed it to market.
Her mother was just one of countless silent victims, one insignificant number in the corporation's ledger of greed.
In that moment, mission payment, team safety, personal survival—all burned to ash in the rage roaring from memory's depths.
Only one thought remained—expose this blood-soaked evidence, tear off Biotechnica's mask of virtue.
Using her netrunning skills, she packaged everything about that painkiller's dark secrets and chose News 54—long at odds with Biotechnica—as recipient.
To ensure the information could breach corporate network lockdowns, she set multiple encryption layers and delayed broadcast nodes.
But downloading massive data streams took time, and her abnormal access patterns finally triggered Biotechnica's internal network security systems.
Tracking, locating, surrounding... it all happened so fast.
"BANG! BOOM—!"
Another thunderous impact split a clear crack down the door's center. A security robot's crimson optical sensor peered through like a bloodthirsty eye, red light cutting unsettling trails through the smoke-filled air.
Sasha's heart seized, knuckles white around the pistol grip.
Progress bar: Ninety-seven percent.
She knew she probably wouldn't make it out alive.
She didn't regret it.
Trading her life for the truth to see daylight, for the hope that maybe other families could avoid similar tragedies—to her, that was worth it.
She just... felt bad about letting Maine's crew down.
Maine, reliable as bedrock, always shouldering the team's weight. Dorio, powerful yet gentle, like a mother to everyone. Falco, quiet but skilled, the team's steadiest backup. Pilar, motor-mouthed coward who never failed when it mattered. And Rebecca...
That hot-headed, tiny firecracker who treated her like a real sister...
Thinking of Rebecca, Sasha's lips curved in a bitter smile.
She touched the still-burning plasma pistol.
Rebecca's baby—she never let anyone touch it, yet shoved it into Sasha's hands without hesitation.
"Buy me a drink when you get back!" Rebecca's bossy-caring shout still echoed in her ears.
"Sorry, Rebecca... guess I'll owe you that drink till next life." Sasha whispered, voice nearly drowned by impacts outside.
Progress bar: Ninety-eight percent.
Through hacked hallway surveillance feeds, she saw multiple security robots plus several fully armed Biotechnica security personnel in standard corporate armor closing in. Weapons loaded, heavy footsteps echoing through empty corridors in a deadly encircling rhythm.
Break out? Zero chance.
This office was the end of the line.
She took a deep breath, steadying her trembling hands.
If she had to die, she'd at least take some with her after that data transmitted.
She checked the plasma pistol's status—overheat warning still flashing, temporarily unsafe to fire.
So she holstered it at her back and drew her own lighter, far weaker pink-purple pistol.
Progress bar: Ninety-nine percent.
The door crack widened. A cold metal claw suddenly thrust through, gripping the edge and tearing outward!
The screeching deformation sounded like the door's death rattle.
"Come on, you corporate dogs!" Sasha's eyes flashed with fatal determination, pistol aimed at the doorway, finger on the cold trigger, waiting for the final moment.
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