Cyberpunk: STRAY

Vincent was careful. Always. But no matter how careful you were in Night City, someone was always watching.

He felt it before he saw them.

A cold sensation at the back of his neck as he stepped into an alley near Jig-Jig Street, his usual shortcut home. The hum of Kiroshi optics locking onto him. The slight shift in the air as a group of men stepped out of the shadows.

Yep, he's pretty sure they're from Arasaka.

Their leader, a tall, sharp-faced man with jet-black hair tied back into a traditional samurai-style bun, took a slow step forward. Ito Sakamoto. Arasaka black ops, known for handling the kind of problems that couldn't be traced back to the company.

"Saw Vincent" Ito said, his voice calm, but carrying the weight of authority. "You made a delivery recently. A certain data shard. I need you to tell me where it went."

Vincent's face didn't change. Of course.

He had known the job was high-risk, but Arasaka chasing him personally? That meant it was worse than he thought.

Vincent exhaled slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets, keeping his stance casual. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Wrong answer."

A fist slammed into his gut. Vincent staggered, but stayed on his feet. Another guy grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the grimy alley wall.

Ito stepped closer, his cybernetic hand gripping Vincent's jaw, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "The shard. We know you moved it. We just want to know who hired you. If you tell us where it is, you walk away from this. No hard feelings."

Vincent blinked. His stomach still burned from the punch, but his mind stayed clear.

He couldn't rat Aurore out. That wasn't even an option.

Instead, he played dumb.

"Think, Sakamoto-san," Vincent said, his voice even. "If I knew I had a shard that important, do you think I'd still be walking around here? You think I'd be sleeping in some rat-hole in Jig-Jig Street? I don't open packages I deliver, business policy" he gave them a smirk but fear visible behind his eyes.

Ito narrowed his eyes.

Vincent continued, seizing control of the conversation. "Whoever hired me was smart enough to keep their distance. I was just a middleman. Disposable. If you're looking for answers, I'm not the guy you want."

Ito studied him. Vincent knew the man was running calculations in his head. He wasn't stupid. If Vincent really was the key to this mystery, then why the hell was he still breathing?

One of the operators spoke up. "Boss, what if he's lying?"

Ito didn't answer immediately. His grip loosened slightly, but his eyes stayed locked on Vincent's.

Then, with a sigh, he let go and took a step back. "You're either telling the truth, or you're the best liar I've seen in a long time."

Vincent straightened his jacket, expression unreadable. "So what happens now?"

Ito stared at him for another few seconds, then waved his men off. "Nothing. For now. But if I find out you fed me bullshit—"

Vincent smirked slightly. "You'll be the first to know."

Ito didn't look amused.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his men following close behind.

Vincent stayed where he was until the sound of their footsteps faded.

Then, finally, he let out a slow breath.

"Sayonara assholes.." he muttered to himself.

He'd won this round. But they'd be watching him now.

And Arasaka never forgot a loose end.

Back at an undisclosed Arasaka safehouse in Night City, Ito stood before a holo-display, watching the data feed scroll past. Vincent Htet's profile was on screen—or what little there was of it.

No digital footprint. No bank records. No family. No past affiliations. The kid barely existed.

"Tell me we have something," Ito said, voice sharp, looking at one of his subordinates.

One of his operatives, a slim Japanese woman with sharp Kiroshi optics and a sleek cyberdeck wired into her skull, shook her head. "He's a ghost. The only thing we've confirmed is that he does odd jobs for fixers and small-time corpos. No gang ties, no military background. Nothing."

Ito frowned. That made no sense. If Vincent was truly a nobody, then how had he managed to intersect with a high-profile data leak deal?

Another operative, a grizzled ex-merc named Takeda, chimed in. "We ran through his known associates. Most are fixers or delivery contacts. But—" He paused, sending a new file to the display. "There's one person who stands out. Aurore Cassel."

The room went silent for a moment.

Ito's fingers tightened. Aurore Cassel. A known netrunner in both the corporate and underworld, dealing in high-risk contracts, information brokering, and black-market trade. She was trouble. And if Vincent was working for her…

"We have something."

Takeda, an Merc working for Ito gavr nod. "Maybe. But here's the problem—every lead we've pulled on the shard delivery is fake."

The netrunner girl swiped her fingers across the holo-feed, bringing up a web of digital trails. "Whoever covered his tracks was damn good. Multiple false leads, dead-end proxy routes, burner accounts wiped clean. It's like someone went in and erased his involvement before we even started looking. Definitely not the work of some nobody like him."

Ito's jaw tightened. "So we have nothing."

"Not quite," the netrunner said. "We traced a payment trail back to a fixer named T-Bone in Heywood. He allegedly set up Vincent's last few gigs. If we lean on him, we might get something."

Ito exhaled slowly. They were being played.

Vincent hadn't just hidden his tracks—he had made them chase shadows. Every trail they followed was a dead end. This wasn't luck. This was deliberate.

For a moment, Ito had to reassess everything. Was this kid actually more dangerous than they thought?

"Alright," Ito finally said, his voice calm but edged with irritation. "Find T-Bone. Make him talk."

Takeda nodded. "And the kid?"

Ito thought for a moment.

"He's either the smartest street rat in Night City or a lucky idiot. Either way—we don't move on him yet."

His eyes darkened.

"Not until we know for sure."

Vincent sat in his cramped Jig-Jig Street apartment, a dim red light flickering from the broken neon sign outside his window. The scent of cheap ramen and cigarette smoke hung in the air. His cheap laptop, an outdated, pre- DataKrash model, whirred quietly, the screen reflecting in his glasses as he calmly typed away.

Arasaka was looking for him.

Not officially, not yet. If they had real evidence, they would've kicked down his door already. No, they were sniffing, trying to confirm something before making a move. That meant he still had time.

He took a slow breath, fingers moving with precision as he flicked through the layers of misdirection he had set up.

How had he pulled it off?

It started before he even took the job.

Vincent never did anything blind. When the Aurore's people handed him the shard, he knew what he was holding was nuclear-grade intel. If it got traced back to him, he was dead. So, before he made the drop, he buried himself under layers of digital camouflage.

First, he used a bunch of stolen courier ID—someone who didn't even know their identity had been stolen.

Second, he sent out six fake deliveries around Night City, making sure each one followed a similar route to his actual drop. If Arasaka tried to track him, they'd have to chase every lead.

Third, he rerouted the payment chain through burner accounts, each one linking to some small-time nobody who wasn't even aware their info was being used. Making it looks like the work of someone who knew what they were doing rather than something a nobody like him would pull.

Lastly, he planted fake data trails in old city archives, rewriting logs to make it look like someone else had been at the delivery site.

And it worked.

They were chasing ghosts.

He had been careful, but not perfect. There was always a chance they'd get something—some tiny slip-up that pointed back to him. That's why he wasn't relaxing. He was watching them, just like they were watching him.

A few taps on his laptop, and the old machine lit up with surveillance feeds. The camera across from T-bone's hideout in Heywood showed two corporate-looking men stepping out of a black car. Arasaka.

Vincent exhaled slowly.

They were digging out information.

And that meant he had to dig deeper first.

Vincent's fingers moved with precise intent, each keystroke weaving a digital web that kept him ahead of the Arasaka agents hunting him. His old laptop hummed under the stress, but he had no time to worry about that now. They were getting closer.

He flicked to another surveillance feed—Little China, outside a Kiroshi clinic. Two more suits. They weren't just sniffing around anymore. They were placing eyes on anyone who might've handled the shard.

Shit.

His burner phone buzzed. Unknown Number.

He let it ring, five exact times, before picking up.

"You're running out of room to breathe, boy."

Ito Sakamoto.

Arasaka counter-intelligence, a corporate network specialist. Ruthless, efficient, the kind of guy who didn't waste words.

Vincent leaned back, forcing his voice to stay calm, unreadable.

"No idea what you're talking about."

"You think we're stupid?" Sakamoto's voice was razor-sharp. "We know you ran the delivery. We know who you did it for. Last chance, boy you have an hour."

Vincent tapped his keyboard, pulling up another security feed. Nothing outside his apartment—yet.

"Then why are you calling me?" Vincent said, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. "If you had proof, you wouldn't be talking. You'd be sending a team."

There was a pause. Vincent had hit a nerve.

"I'm giving you a chance," Sakamoto said finally. "Give me the data trail. Confirm what we already know. You walk away."

Vincent smirked.

"Funny, I thought Arasaka didn't negotiate with nobodies like me."

"Then so be it" Ito was pissed.

Silence.

Then, the call cut.

Not good.

Vincent exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to stay steady.

That was a test. If they weren't sure before, they definitely were now.

He opened a new window—rerouting all his accounts, wiping traces, burning old pathways. He had maybe ten minutes before things got serious.

And then—his apartment lights flickered.

The old neon outside his window shorted out.

Vincent moved.

Laptop—shut. Backpack—slung over his shoulder. Out the back exit.

Too late.

A black SUV screeched around the corner, tires screeching against the rain-slick street. Arasaka.

They weren't asking anymore.

Vincent ran.

The moment the SUV skidded into view, he was already moving—muscle memory, pure instinct. The alley behind his apartment was tight, cluttered with dumpsters and rusting fire escapes. No time to think, only move.

A gunshot cracked through the air.

The metal railing beside him exploded as a high-caliber round tore through it. Arasaka wasn't playing.

"Fucking hell—!" Vincent vaulted over a pile of crates, landing hard on the slick pavement. He felt his ankle twist slightly but forced himself forward. Pain was a luxury.

Footsteps. Fast. Too fast.

Sakamoto's men were already on his tail. He had seconds.

Vincent swerved into another alley, cutting through a noodle stand that was just closing up for the night. The vendor barely had time to react before Vincent shoved past, sending bowls of broth flying.

Another gunshot. The neon sign above his head burst into sparks.

"STOP RUNNING!" a voice barked.

Vincent didn't.

Fire escape.

He didn't hesitate—jumped, grabbed the ladder, yanked himself up. His ribs burned, but he hauled himself onto the first platform.

Then he heard tires.

A second vehicle, coming in fast.

Vincent climbed higher, looking over his shoulder as another black SUV screeched onto the street below.

They were boxing him in.

"Goddamn corpo bastards," Vincent hissed, scaling onto the rooftop. He sprinted across the cracked concrete, leaping over a rusted AC unit.

The first SUV had stopped below—Sakamoto's men were already pouring out, weapons drawn.

Then—headlights.

From the opposite end of the street, another car came roaring in. Different model. Sleek, matte black, engine growling like a beast hunting prey.

Vincent barely had a second to register it before it drifted into a perfect, violent stop.

Aurore.

The window rolled down, and she leaned out, cigarette barely hanging between her lips. She looked pissed.

"You are fucking kidding me, right?" she yelled up at him. Throwing away her cigarette.

Vincent didn't hesitate. He ran for the edge.

Bullets ripped through the night—Arasaka opened fire. A bullet hit Aurore's car.

Vincent dove.

For a split second, he was airborne—rain-slick wind rushing past his face, neon city lights flashing beneath him.

Then—impact, the sound was not good, her car's hood got a dent now.

He crashed onto the car's hood, rolling off and slamming against the pavement. Stars exploded in his vision. A drop of blood poured from his banged up forehead.

"MOVE, you stupid fuck!" Aurore screamed.

Vincent scrambled to his feet, throwing himself into the passenger seat just as she floored it.

The engine roared, tires screaming as the car spun, narrowly dodging another burst of gunfire.

Then they were gone, racing down the soaked streets of Night City, Arasaka's men fading into the distance.

Vincent exhaled, chest heaving. Everything hurt.

Aurore shot him a glare.

"You better have a good fucking reason for this, little boy."

Vincent wiped blood from his mouth, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I think I just pissed off Arasaka."

"Yeah.. no shit..." Aurore gave him a sideeye, then gave a call to her brother Aymeric as she drove towards Pacifica...