Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 620, Section 34: Old William's Hot Dog Stand
The NCPD and KK team conducted a police auxiliary system that was still in the testing phase. The system aimed to recruit idle people on the streets to help the NCPD with their duties, and the results of its first day of operation were extremely impressive.

Six Black Hole Dream manufacturing dens were uprooted, four Scavenger Slaughterhouses were reduced to ruins in the crossfire, and even a heavy truck carrying smuggled cybernetic bodies was intercepted. When the operation report was projected onto the holographic screen in the director's office, Director Johnson's jawline, which had been taut due to the recent series of street murders, finally relaxed almost imperceptibly.

At this rate, the unrest on the streets should subside in a few days—at least on the surface.

But Johnson knew better than anyone that this was just the calm before the storm.

News of KK Squad's assistance had already spread like wildfire through the streets. The hyenas that had been lurking in the shadows had all retreated back to their dens, licking their fangs and waiting for the storm to pass.

The reason we were able to catch them all today is simply because there were still a few clueless fools who hadn't gotten wind of the operation yet. Once these guys learn their lesson and go underground, the remaining tough nuts will have to be cracked by the NCPD themselves.

However, catching some idiots is not bad. Today's results alone are equivalent to the NCPD's performance over the past month—and that's with the efficiency of recruiting three batches of new officers since Johnson took office. If it were during the previous downsizing and layoffs, these cases would probably have been gathering dust in the archives for half a year.

Thinking of this, the director opened the holographic panel and transferred the assistance fee to Karl. This amount of money was probably only enough for top mercenaries like the KK team to have half a round of drinks at the 'Afterlife' bar, but it could at least allow them to have a few decent meals.

Ding--

When the notification sounded, Carl was standing under the neon sign of "Old William's Hot Dog Stand." The distorted synthetic flesh image in the holographic advertisement cast an eerie pink light in his eyes. He glanced at the payment notification and casually stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

"Just use regular yellow mustard, don't squeeze out too much."

"Don't worry, I know your tastes too well." Old William's mechanical fingers deftly flipped the worm sausages on the grill. "How about another locust pizza? Freshly arrived Mexican locusts, spicy marinated, absolutely delicious."

Carl looked at the fluorescent sign on the stall that read "Special Offer: Organic Wheat Crust" and suddenly realized that he was becoming more and more accepting of food: "I'll have one. Although it tastes like chewing wet cardboard, at least the crust can still taste some wheat flavor."

"The formula has been improved this time!" Old William proudly raised his mechanical thumb. "The customer said it's like biting into a water-soaked sponge, that's a five-star review!"

Carl stared at the other's missing mechanical finger—a remnant left from when it was made because its taste had angered a gang member. He swallowed his complaints. In Night City, being able to make synthetic food taste like "not industrial waste" was indeed something to be proud of.

Carl still remembers the first time he met old William—it was in a cheap apartment building in the neighborhood, the air thick with the smell of cheap synthetic tobacco and engine oil.

At the time, they were taking David, who was still a rookie, on a mission to clear out the cleaners and broaden his horizons. When the fully armed KK team opened the rusty iron door and entered the target floor, they saw this lean old man leaning against the door of the residence, smoking.

Old William's reaction at that time was textbook perfect. He squinted his smoke-reddened eyes, quickly glanced at the weapon in Karl's hand, and then calmly stubbed out his cigarette on the dark wall. He then decisively went into the room and closed the door. The whole process was smooth and natural, like he was performing a street ballet that had been rehearsed countless times.

The well-behaved old William didn't alert anyone. After realizing that Carl and his group weren't targeting him, he obediently returned to his room as they instructed. He even slipped them a business card through the crack in the door, hoping they would come over for a meal sometime.

When Mr. Johnson came to handle the aftermath, Carl casually handed him the business card that old William had given him.

The NCPD's food culture was completely transformed when Johnson first stepped into William's special "Sheriff's Meal" at his stall.

Andy and his colleagues conducted an experiment: they compared Old William's worm sausages with those from other stalls under ultraviolet light. The former showed natural muscle fiber patterns, while the latter looked like cheap clay and appeared as a single, uniform piece.

Today, this rusty yet gleaming mobile food truck has become a regular supply station for NCPD officers on duty. The "NCPD Special Partner" paint on the truck gleams under the neon lights, and next to it is a grinning cartoon hot dog—supposedly painted on by a detective who was on duty until the early hours of the morning and who was related to William the Elder by blood, along with her other best friend who was related to the chief by blood.

Old William's business philosophy was simple: officers received a 20% discount on meals, and if they bought three meals, they could get one free. He also always served officers first, and this business philosophy helped his business flourish.

On one occasion, a greenhorn from the Tiger Claw gang, fresh out of school, came to collect "cleaning fees" with a Lexington. Before he could even finish speaking, three patrol officers who were eating hot dogs pinned him to the front of the food truck. From then on, the area within a 50-meter radius of Old William's food truck automatically became the "Peace Zone."

Even the most fanatical members of the Vortex Gang would obediently switch their weapons to safe mode when passing by. After all, in this ruthless city, places that the NCPD would willingly maintain are rarer than military-grade cybernetic implants. Carl took his first bite of the hot dog of the day, the spiciness of the synthetic yellow mustard exploding on his tongue. He noticed pink muscle fibers on the cross-section of the sausage—a characteristic of the freshest vertical farm worms.

Old William's signature sauce perfectly masks the fishy smell of insect protein, and the two extra slices of synthetic pickled cucumbers that are more common than those at a regular hot dog stand are the perfect finishing touch.

In an era where deception and inferior products have become commonplace, old William stubbornly adheres to the most original culinary philosophy: using genuine ingredients and treating everyone fairly, young and old.

Although he uses inexpensive protein farm-raised worms, his hands, covered in burn scars, can transform the mundane into something magical. This is probably why even Carl, who is very picky about food, occasionally buys his hot dogs.

Carl and his two companions finished off the hot dog, and just then, old William pushed the locust pizza out of the oven. On the golden wheat crust, Mexican locusts glistened with oil and emitted an enticing aroma—at least it looked much more presentable than most street food.

Carl accepted the packaged locust pizza.

"Thirteen euros, right? Transfer it now—"

"No thanks." Old William tapped the food truck sign with his sauce-covered robotic arm. In the distance, several NCPD officers who had just finished their shift were walking towards them, their badges on their tactical vests gleaming under the neon lights. "If it weren't for that business card you guys handed me, this old car of mine would have been torn to shreds by the gang long ago."

He skillfully sprinkled synthetic cheese on the pizza, the cheese stretching into thin strands in the residual heat: "KK Squad always pays for free. This rule was established the day my granddaughter was admitted to the NCPD." Old William blinked his cloudy left eye, which hadn't been replaced by a prosthetic eye, "Although that girl is now complaining every day in the logistics department that my locust pizza isn't as good as the synthetic protein in the police station's canteen."

As Carl took the pizza, he noticed a holographic photo on the food truck's windshield—a young policewoman in a brand-new uniform giving a thumbs-up to the camera, just like old William.

"Then I shall accept it without hesitation."

"Tsk, you mercenaries always talk like official documents on a data board." Old William grinned, his mechanical dentures gleaming bronze under the neon lights. "Next time you come, I'll get you some crispy hot dogs—I can't forget your taste, even in this old body."

"of course."

Carl turned and left with the pizza in his hand, the aroma of hot oil filling the humid air. Several NCPD officers who passed by nodded warmly to him, one of whom, a rookie, was so nervous that he even saluted.

Citizens, drawn by the police officers, gradually gathered around the food truck. Instead of backing away because of Karl's fearsome reputation, they curiously sized up the legendary mercenary—a little girl in a pale yellow dress even winked at him and gave him a big smile.

The warm yellow streetlights cast long shadows of the crowd. Carl recalled what Mr. Johnson had said in the director's office earlier that day: "Who the hell cares what scum believe?"

He took a bite of the pizza, and the spiciness of the Mexican locusts exploded on his tongue.

Yes.

Who the hell cares what those scum believe?
My mood suddenly improved a lot.

Carl finished his pizza, and then his phone received a new message.

"I need your help with something, Carl."

The sender of the message is...
Haruko.

(End of this chapter)