Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 618, Section 32: The Illegal Clinic
People who have been working on the streets for more than a month are already used to NCPD visits.

People who make a living in this area, especially those who operate in the gray area, are often suspected of having some shady dealings with the police if they have never been bothered by the NCPD. This is especially true for those who are desperate criminals who sell high-risk, illegal prosthetic bodies; they have long prepared contingency plans to deal with the NCPD.

But KK's appearance completely shattered their preparations.

When the cyborg doctor at the underground clinic caught a glimpse of that figure on the surveillance footage outside the roller shutter door, his pupils suddenly contracted.

His first reaction wasn't to grab a weapon or sound the alarm, but to immediately press the start button for the emergency protection procedure—he couldn't even care less about the half-open chest on the operating table or the customer whose surgery was already halfway done, let alone notify his accomplices in the basement. The moment the explosion-proof metal gate began to descend, he had already lifted the hidden door in the floor and scurried into the stinking sewer like a frightened mouse.

No matter who it is, they would do the same if KK came knocking on their door. This illegal prosthetic doctor felt no shame whatsoever for betraying his teammates, because he knew that if it were his group of companions, who were cobbled together for profit, they would have done the same.

The illegal prosthetic doctor was the first to flee, and he was also the first to be arrested.

"This place stinks like a slaughterhouse."

In the darkness, his modified prosthetic eye caught sight of a black and white figure—a talking dog? Then, his consciousness completely disappeared.

Meanwhile, an underground clinic.

The loud bang of the explosion-proof metal gate slamming down made the surgical instruments vibrate and hum.

"Damn! What's going on?" In the basement lounge, several members of the illegal clinic jumped up. "There's a problem with the surgery upstairs? Are you online? Hello!"

There was only static on the communication channel.

"What happened?"

The people looked at each other in the darkness. If it was an accidental triggering of the protection program, the people upstairs would have been cursing and explaining by now; if it was a surprise attack, there would have been gunfire overhead by now. But right now, there was only deathly silence, as if the entire building had been suddenly thrown into a vacuum.

There were fourteen people in the basement. The two who were supposed to be the leaders exchanged a glance, clearly sensing a vague sense of unease.

They were originally two groups of outsiders who had only set foot on Night City's territory last month. After a fierce battle, they realized that neither side could defeat the other, so they decided to shake hands and make peace. At the dinner table, they discovered that they unexpectedly complemented each other: one controlled a supply of high-risk prosthetic bodies, while the other was an expert in underground surgery. Thus, a "get-rich-quick scheme" was born.

After two months of preparation, the illegal clinic opened. In just thirty days, the profits far exceeded expectations. At this rate, if they continue for another six months, everyone will be able to leave with clean identities and bulging wallets.

Until tonight, when this unexpected event occurred and no one responded.

What's going on?
In the darkness, all fourteen people wanted to know what had happened. Many had already drawn their guns and aimed them at the entrance connecting the basement to the upper floor in the deathly silence.

"呲呲-"

The unanswered communication echoed in the basement. The two leaders exchanged a glance, and even a nod seemed superfluous. Their tacit understanding over this period led them to draw their guns at the same time and make their way towards the stairs, one after the other.

The leader has to be at the forefront.

This is a lesson they learned from street brawls: in the fight for territory in alleys, whoever cowers in the back will never be respected. Now, although they have made a name for themselves and become leaders of small groups, their instincts haven't changed—when danger comes, they have to be the first to step in.

Both men were wearing subcutaneous armor, not military-grade heavy protective subcutaneous armor, but it was more than enough to stop a few ordinary bullets. If they were shot, they could immediately retreat, blow up the escape wall they had prepared in advance, and slip into the sewers to make a quick getaway.

But they didn't want to escape.

This underground clinic took two months to set up and another month to make a name for itself in the black market. Clients, equipment, and distribution channels—everything was bought with real money. Should we just give up like this? We're not willing to.

Maybe it was just a false alarm, maybe that idiot upstairs who was having surgery accidentally electrocuted himself, triggering the safety mechanism, maybe.
Perhaps they can still turn the situation around.

The more confident one had already reached the door, his fingers resting on the door panel. This door had been specially treated, concealed within a movable, matching wall, so it wouldn't make a sound when pushed open—just a gentle push.

He would then be able to see exactly what was happening in the clinic.

The leader, who was walking in front, pushed open the door. In the dim light of the illegal clinic, his prosthetic eyes scanned the clinic.

He didn't see anyone.

The subordinate who should have been upstairs performing surgery was nowhere to be found, and the security system at the door had been activated, with no signs of damage.

He gestured to the people behind him, then carefully took his pistol and walked into the clinic.

One step, two steps.

There were no ambushes, no traps, only the buzzing of electric current from sterile lamps. My taut nerves caused a stinging pain in the subcutaneous nail guard on the back of my neck—something was wrong.

Could it really be an accident? But where are my men?
As he was thinking this, he caught a tremor of light and shadow out of the corner of his eye.

The light and shadow came from a cloth stained with blood.

A surgical drape is a cloth that is strictly sterilized and placed under the patient during surgery. However, in this illegal clinic, it was used as a cover to prevent blood from splattering during surgery. In the eyes of this boss, something was trembling after the drape was hung up in front of him.

He gestured to the person behind him, took a slight breath, and then slowly approached the hanging cloth.

Then, he reached out with both hands at the same time. With his left hand, he ripped open the hanging cloth, and with his right hand, he pointed the gun at the trembling object, ready to shoot it at any moment if things went wrong.

"Squeak-"

As the towel was being pulled away, he saw what was behind it.

It was a person, a person undergoing surgery. His chest cavity had been opened up to the fourth rib, and the exposed lung lobes rose and fell slightly with the residual effects of anesthesia. The surgical incision was unusually smooth, and you could even see the tiny numbers engraved on the outer membrane of the prosthetic lung. His fingers twitched nervously, like a skinned frog still kicking its legs reflexively.

This is a guest.

The boss recognized the man; he was a customer who had booked surgery for today.

But the guest is here, so where is the subordinate who performed the surgery?
His temples throbbed. The guests were here, but where were the subordinates who were wielding the knife?

The answer was next to the operating table—a hidden door in the floorboards that had been lifted up. The dark passageway resembled an open esophagus. He escaped; that guy had actually activated the safety procedures midway through the surgery and slipped away directly through the escape route.

But what could possibly cause a butcher who had personally sawed open more than thirty live corpses to die before he could even send a message?

"You're the only one left."

Just as the leader of the righteous path was wondering what was going on, a hand landed on his shoulder.

It was a hand with a gentle touch.

It was very warm.

But this sound...
It was as familiar as the King of Hell himself, who had just emerged from the depths of hell.

"KK".

He closed his eyes.

No wonder they ran away.

(End of this chapter)