After a quick but satisfying snack, the boy left the waterfront behind. Arroyo was no place for a peaceful stroll, let alone soul-searching. The district had been industrial from the jump — factories and plants grinding day and night "for the good of the people," or so claimed the flashy corporate billboards standing tall at Arroyo's entrance.
David headed toward the northern edge of Glen. Sure, the area had a sketchy rep, but ever since its recent overhaul, the Night Corporation had tightened its grip on Heywood, spreading its influence across almost the entire crime-ridden district. Still, despite corporate efforts to reel in Glen and its fringes, the western side of Heywood stayed firmly under the Valentinos' thumb — a gang notorious across Night City for their short fuses and their love-hate dance with the Sixth Street crew, who ran the show in Santo Domingo.
David's old man, Jeremy, had made it his personal mission to drill survival skills into his kid's head — especially the gritty ins and outs of gang politics, where knowing who ran what could mean the difference between life and death. And sure, David understood, at least in theory. But like most teens, he didn't take those lessons nearly as seriously as his father would've liked.
Heywood itself was packed tight — home to wave after wave of immigrants. Around Night City, folks called it "the city's biggest bedroom." By 2068, the middle class had pretty much evaporated, left to rot while the rich built their towers ever higher. Somehow, Heywood still clung to a slice of that dying demographic. It had become a last resort for people who scraped together enough cash to escape places like Watson, Pacifica, or the decaying suburbs — but couldn't afford life in Charter Hill. Now, those lucky few were hanging on for dear life, fighting not to slide right back down the food chain.
No surprise the locals loved their district — flaws, grime, and all.
Heywood buzzed with life — shops, cafés, everything from swanky seafood joints and boutiques along the coast to gritty street markets and taco stands in Vista del Rey. Most of the population was Latino, largely of Mexican descent, though plenty of other cultures had left their mark too.
"Hey, kid. Wanna buy a BD?" came a voice from a nearby alley — gritty, slippery, the kind of voice that never stopped looking over its shoulder.
"You talking to me?" David asked, jabbing a finger at his own chest.
"Yeah, you. Let's take a walk. I know a quiet spot," the dealer said, voice heavy with implication.
"Black BDs, huh…" David smirked. "Yeah, I get the picture. But I'm not following you anywhere."
"Suit yourself," the guy muttered. "Just stick close to the wall. I'm not looking to get picked up."
He took a few steps forward, let out a sharp breath, gave a glance around, and turned back toward David.
"So, what do you say? In the mood for something… adults-only?" the guy asked with a sleazy grin, flashing a small rectangular case. One look at the cover was all it took to know exactly what kind of brain dance it was.
"Porn, huh?" David raised an eyebrow. "How much?"
"Two hundred eddies. Top-shelf stuff. Best part? It's a direct rip from Jimmy Kuros—"
"Bullshit," David cut him off. "Kurosaki's stuff starts at five hundred — more if it's a legit copy. Everyone knows that. And Jimmy? He's into black BDs. Blood, gore, dismemberment. Not exactly the softcore type."
The dealer's eyes narrowed. "How the hell would you know that?"
David clocked his movement — a hand slowly drifting behind his back.
"My buddy tunes BDs. Makes decent eddies doing it. Can't shut up about it, so I've picked up a thing or two," David said, matching the sleazy grin with a smirk of his own, hand inching toward his thigh.
"Listen, choom," the guy said, smile fading fast. "I need eddies. Bad. So be a good little corpo brat and don't do anything stupid."
He reached.
David was faster.
"You draw, I shoot," he said coldly, pistol already leveled at the guy's forehead.
The dealer froze, eyes wide.
"Turn around. Slow. Gun on the ground — no sudden moves or you're getting a bullet to the skull."
No argument. The guy had seen this play out before — one wrong twitch and it's a body bag or a prison cell. Between the city patrols and the Valentinos keeping rough order on their turf, his odds weren't great.
"Okay, okay! Just don't shoot," he muttered, crouching to lower the weapon.
"Face me," David barked. The guy turned, hands up. "Kick it over. Now."
The gun scraped across the pavement.
"You've got ten seconds to vanish. After that? I shoot."
"Please... I'm gone, I swear."
And just like that, the guy bolted — vanishing down the alley like a rat into a sewer drain.
David exhaled. Only then did he realize he'd been holding his breath. He wiped sweat from his forehead.
That was the first time he'd pointed a gun at someone for real.
Sure, he'd done it in VR — Jeremy used to run him through endless street scenarios. Back then, it felt like a game. Turns out, those sessions were the only reason he didn't fall apart.
"What the hell?" David muttered, surprised when his hand suddenly refused to cooperate. "C'mon, open up already…"
His fingers were stiff, locked tight around the pistol, and it was starting to freak him out.
"There we go."
He let out a breath and pried the gun free with his other hand. The moment it shifted to his left, sensation came rushing back into the one that had gone numb. He flexed his fingers, shaking the hand out as pins and needles danced beneath the skin. The nerves were firing again — and they weren't being subtle about it.
Snapping back to reality, Martinez holstered his pistol, then crouched to scoop up the one still lying on the ground. A quick once-over: minor scuffs on the grip, a few faint scratches along the barrel. He flipped it in his hands, popped the mag, and checked the ammo.
"Six rounds. Half full," he muttered, shaking his head.
"And the genius didn't even take it off safety," he added with a smirk, still eyeing his new trophy.
"Alright... rest of the inspection can wait till I'm home." He allowed himself a brief, satisfied grin — then turned and froze.
A woman was standing a few meters away, arms crossed, glaring at him like he'd just kicked her dog. She'd clearly been watching the whole thing.
"I'd say 'nice work holding your ground,' but really — what part of your brain thought it was smart to follow some random sleaze into a back alley?" Her voice was sharp, clipped, no-nonsense.
"Uh... had it under control, ma'am." David nodded toward his holstered pistol like that proved something.
"Under control?" she barked, stepping closer and towering over him. "Kid, if that scumbag had even half a spine, you'd be zipped up in a body bag right now."
She held out her hand. "Now hand over the gun."
"Says who?" David scowled, not ready to give up his hard-earned loot.
"Says the law, genius. You need a permit before you start strutting around with heat like that. So be a good little choomba and hand it over." She gave her hand a sharp little wave, growing impatient.
"Sorry, ma'am... and you are?"
"Galina," she snapped. Then, catching the look on his face, added, "Night City Police Department. Officer Galina Yakovleva, badge NCP-1923. Now, are we gonna stand here playing twenty questions, or what?"
David sighed. "Man, this day just keeps getting better." He reluctantly handed over the pistol.
"Smart move." Galina gave a quick smile, stashing the weapon in her backpack. "I won't mess with your own piece. But seriously — don't go waving it around like it's a damn fashion accessory. Got it?"
"Thanks for the tip," David muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets.
"We done here? Can I go now?" He raised an eyebrow.
"You've got ten seconds to disappear," Galina said with a wink and a half-smile.
Biting his lip, Martinez picked up the pace, heading straight for the main street. He wasn't in the mood to test the patience of the woman behind him — especially now that she'd started counting down out loud, probably just to light a fire under his ass.
It worked. David moved faster.
As he stepped out of the alley, he almost plowed straight into a passing pedestrian. He swerved at the last second, barely staying upright, and shot the guy a glare over his shoulder — only to spin back around and walk straight into someone else.
It felt like slamming into a brick wall.
"Shit," he muttered, blinking as his eyes refocused.
"You good?" asked a short girl, holding out her hand.
"Yeah… think so," David said, taking it and pulling himself upright.
"Roxy, what's the holdup?" came another voice.
Then came the glare — a blonde this time, clearly not thrilled. "And who the hell are you?"
"David," he said, brushing himself off.
"Well, damn. A whole name and everything," the blonde snorted. "You want something, or are you just out here collecting collisions?"
"Not really," David said, scratching the back of his neck.
"Then do us a favor and keep walking." She waved him off like he was some stray mutt.
"Lucy!" Roxy gasped, shooting her sister a look.
"Ever heard of basic manners?" David snapped, raising a brow at the blonde.
"I have manners," Lucy said coolly, folding her arms.
"Yeah, I can tell," David shot back, mirroring her stance. "Wanna give me a demo?"
"Oh, great. A smartass," she muttered, narrowing her eyes.
"Never claimed I wasn't," David said, not budging.
"Guys, maybe save the street war for later?" Roxy said gently.
"She started it—"
"He started it—"
They said it in perfect unison, then blinked at each other, thrown off by the timing.
"This might take a while…" Roxy sighed, closing her eyes.
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