Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 639, Section 53: Restraint
The gold-rimmed glasses reflected the cold light of the basement's flickering lamp, and beneath his meticulously combed slicked-back hair was the face of a typical corporate elite. His impeccably tailored suit seemed like a second skin—this outfit was practically a direct copy from a 'corporate employee image manual'.

Oliver subconsciously ground his back teeth. Just seeing this outfit made his temples throb. That innate sense of superiority, that look of contempt for trash—every detail provoked his urge to deliver a straight punch to the other man's nose.

"Is this the 'goods' we're supposed to pick up?" Oliver whistled, his fingers tapping unconsciously on his holster. "It looks so tempting."

Whelan didn't say anything, but silently adjusted the position of his tactical gloves.

Having spent years navigating the streets, he had seen far too many of these "high-class" types—their shiny leather shoes never wanting to get dirty, their chins always held up at a 15-degree angle when they spoke. This ingrained arrogance was more repulsive than the glass curtain walls of office buildings.

Karl frowned slightly as well.

This overly standard, disgusting corporate dog look, along with that face, gives off a scheming, petty vibe.

Although Carl didn't really believe that you could judge a person by their appearance alone, and had always despised the bad habit of judging people by their looks, he had to admit that Oliver was right at this moment—some faces just had a punchable quality that made people itch to hit them.

The three exchanged glances, and at that moment they reached a rare consensus: this bastard really gave off the impression of someone you wanted to punch.

As Carl and his two companions scrutinized the company elite like hunters, the man also became aware of their arrival.

In the flickering basement light, the company dog, who had been huddled in the corner, suddenly straightened up. He jerked his head up like a startled weasel, his cloudy pupils contracting sharply behind his broken gold-rimmed glasses. The sound of acid rain hitting the ceiling mingled with the groans of cracking concrete, but at that moment all his attention was fixed on the three uninvited guests.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and cold sweat trickled down his meticulously combed blond hair. When the flickering light swept across Carl and his colleagues' faces for the third time, the company dog's eyes widened—his expression was as if he had seen a terrifying monster appear before him in the wilderness, and he had nowhere to run.

'KK Oliver, and 'Pangolin' Crispin Wayland'

The company dog's cracked, blocked lips trembled, unable to utter a sound, but he still managed to squeeze out those names for himself in his throat. He felt an ice pick slowly piercing his spine—ten times worse than his worst nightmare.

At this moment, his heart was like an overloaded engine, pounding wildly in his chest. The monitoring chip issued a sharp warning, and a red alert of "[heart rate 187]" kept popping up on his retina. Cold sweat soaked through his custom-made shirt, and his suit suddenly felt like a shroud, suffocating him.

Any one of these three people appearing openly on the street would be enough to clear the entire street, but now they have surrounded him. Especially when he met KK's cold, gleaming eyes, a primal fear awakened from the depths of his genes—the instinctive tremor of a creature facing a apex predator.

The basement ventilation ducts suddenly emitted a wailing sound, and the rusty metal mesh cast a spiderweb-like shadow above his head, as if the noose of fate was tightening.

Carl noticed the fear in the company dog's eyes; from the dog's gaze, Carl knew that the dog recognized him.

Once he's recognized, things will be easier. At the very least, he should be more sensible, knowing that running away is impossible and dying is also impossible, and he'll be quieter after understanding that.

Carl surveyed the man's current condition; under the flickering emergency lights, the man was nailed to the modified metal bed like a specimen.

What was originally a makeshift bed in the basement has now become the perfect restraint device. Seven industrial-grade straps radiate outwards, locking his limbs, waist, abdomen, and neck. Each strap is inlaid with a bite-resistant carbon fiber mesh, leaving him no chance to escape on his own.

More cautious than expected. Roger was worried that this person might run away if left here, and even gave a rough area. But now it seems that this corporate dog, which is not equipped with any combat prosthetics, cannot even break free from its initial restraints.

Dakota, the middleman on the Badlands, was clearly an expert in handling live cargo, having likely done this sort of thing many times before. She knew exactly how to transfer people, and under Carl's observation, she even had a second layer of insurance.

Carl noticed several inconspicuous red lines under the metal plate where the company dog ​​was tied up. After a brief observation, Carl understood what those red lines were: the sensor lines of the cutting device.

These biometric sensing wires are as thin as hair, but if the restraint pressure is reduced by 15%, the rapid-fire tendon cutter installed under the bed will complete a precise strike within 0.3 seconds, ensuring that even if the company dog ​​has a slight chance of breaking free from its restraints, it cannot escape far and can only wait to be hunted down like an injured rabbit.

Carl lightly touched the red line with the tip of his shoe, watching the company dog's neck stiffen instantly. "They even considered that you might bite your tongue and commit suicide." The spike device on the inside of the strap was obviously designed to deal with this situation. It would be triggered when abnormal jaw movement was detected, ensuring that you could maintain your breathing while eliminating any possibility of suicide.

Raindrops from the storm dripped down the ventilation ducts, striking the metal plates with a countdown-like sound.

Carl bent down slightly and noticed that the man's wrists, exposed from the cuffs of his suit, were chafed and bleeding. The carefully designed restraints didn't even give him any room to struggle in pain.

Carl straightened up.

Well, looking at this person, I always feel a sense of relief, like a tightly bound rice dumpling.
It's been a long time since I've had zongzi (sticky rice dumplings), I kind of miss them.

A strange thought flashed through Karl's mind, and he was already considering how to take this person away.

Dakota handled the goods quite well, completely eliminating any possibility of them becoming unsellable. However, she handled them too well, which ironically led to a momentary unease about how to release the person from her grasp.

According to Carl's observation, the gag was connected to other parts of his body, meaning that if it were removed, it could potentially allow him to speak, and he might bite his tongue and commit suicide.

However, it seems that those who commit suicide by biting their tongues usually choke on their own blood. If that's the case...
Amidst the company dog's terrified expression, Carl revealed the monomolecular line, and then, without hesitation, swung it toward his head.

(End of this chapter)