"December 24th, 2075. 7:50 PM."
Karl glanced at the ti on his phone, then looked up at the city skyline.
Towering buildings rose all around, their lights cascading down like neon waterfalls, washing his figure in color.
Above him—still no sky in sight. Just haze and glare.
"Christmas Eve."
He muttered the words like they didn't belong here.
Across the street stood the Spanish restaurant Blanka had ssaged him about.
Apparently, she'd booked the entire place.
"40k euro. Solo gig. Not bad."
He smirked.
He knew what it ant—man and woman, eting on Christmas Eve?
Classic setup.
Romance, huh.
Not really his thing.
Whatever Blanka was planning, he'd find out soon enough.
In the anti, better to focus on sothing that actually mattered: the food.
If she'd rented the whole restaurant, maybe he could go all out—order everything.
And if he boxed up so leftovers, he could run it to V, Oliver, and Jack out in the Badlands.
They'd been stuck there for three days now, wrenching on that damn car, eating dust and wind.
This place used real ingredients. The food here was legit.
Karl approached the familiar restaurant. He'd been here a few tis before. But tonight, there were surprises.
Standing at the entrance: a group of figures in dark gray tactical bodysuits.
Militech.
His eyes scanned them—black helts, armored vests, utility belts, combat boots.
Underneath? Serious protection.
Ballistic armor, and not the consur-grade crap. This was mil-spec, full package.
Trained n, sure. But not high-level.
Militech's uniforms were the opposite of Arasaka's.
Arasaka grunts could dress however they wanted. But once you hit upper managent, it was black-red suits, cold and clean—Saburo-style.
Militech? The low-level guys looked like clones. The suits upstairs could dress however they damn well pleased.
You could usually tell soone's rank just by their outfit.
Not a perfect rule, but reliable enough.
And these guys?
Karl caught the way they looked at him—nervous, stiff. Eyes darting. Hands too still.
A little tremble in their stance.
Not elite.
Blanka's crew.
Yeah, these weren't top-shelf.
Say what you want about Arasaka, but their training pipeline produced cold, disciplined monsters.
When Karl visited Hanako's estate a few days ago, not a single guard flinched.
Different tier.
He ran a quick ntal calculation.
"Four guys. If I needed to clear them? One second. Monowire."
Not bad. Not good either.
"Is Blanka already inside?"
He asked. The four guards exchanged glances.
Eventually, under the weight of everyone else's stare, the youngest one stepped forward.
"Yes, Director Blanka is already inside. Please proceed with the security check, Mr. KK."
Director?
Blanka had been promoted?
Back when they'd first worked together, she'd been a section chief—sa level as that Tanaka guy over at Arasaka.
But yeah… now that he thought about it, it added up.
She got stabbed in the back by her team, left with no one to trust—ended up hiring him, back when he was still a nobody.
And then?
She sold out Militech's entire Night City transport line.
You didn't pull off a move like that without serious access.
Even betrayal cos with a price tag—and not a small one.
Still, she didn't look like soone surrounded by power.
Assuming she had maybe four more guards inside… that ant eight total.
Eight grunts like this?
Mann's squad could handle them. Easy.
If this were a cultivation novel, Blanka would've gone from "Section Chief: Great Perfection" to "Director Realm," barely a power bump.
But this was Night City.
No rank? No strong subordinates.
Karl let the guards scan him with their biotric gear. Identity confird. He was cleared.
They stepped aside.
He entered.
The Spanish restaurant wasn't huge, but it was warm and familiar.
Blanka was already waiting.
And tonight—she looked different.
Karl had seen her in corporate suits, streetwear, even combat gear.
But never like this.
"…That an Andalusian dress?"
He sat down across from her, eyes on the half-red gown, trailing behind her like fire.
The ruffled layers near the hem stood out—recognizable.
"Or should I say… a flanco dress?"
Traditional Spanish formalwear. In motion, those dresses flared like blossoms of fla.
"You recognize this?"
She sounded surprised.
"Yeah. Saw a flanco show once. Picked up a few things."
He gave the dress a once-over, expression dry.
"But with a hem that long, and fabric that heavy? If things go south, you're not outrunning anybody."
"…"
Blanka went silent.
She'd worn sothing aningful from her holand. To show pride. Culture. Maybe even affection.
And Karl's first reaction?
"Bad for running."
"Won wear beautiful clothes to be complinted," she said finally, swallowing her frustration.
"I don't skip complints."
He gave her a small, genuine smile.
"Like fire blooming into a flower. Beautiful."
She froze. Just for a second.
Then recovered—like nothing happened.
She picked up the nu and passed it to him.
"You should order."
"…You're blushing."
"Third rule: don't randomly ask won about their emotions."
She sighed.
"But… I've gotten used to your personality."
"So?"
"So… first, we eat."
She locked eyes with him.
"Knowing you, you don't talk business unless you've eaten."
"…Yeah. That's true."
.
.
.
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