Rain pisses from the sky, a rare thing in Night City, but unpleasant nonetheless. Acidic, metallic, thin as spite.

It streaks down the sides of buildings like tears on chrome, slicking the streets in a grime sheen that reflects the city’s constant barrage of light: billboards, brake lights, gunfire. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s screaming. Somewhere else, someone’s laughing like a mad scientist.

And in a rusted-out alley off Jig-Jig Street, Elvis Marks crouches beside a shattered vending bot, digging a bullet out of his side with a pair of pliers.

He winces, hissing through his teeth. "Fucking amateurs."

The slug clatters to the ground. Small. Cheap. Street-grade. Didn’t go deep, just grazed muscle, but enough to sting. His jacket’s soaked, more blood than rain, but it’s black denim and hides it well. His chrome arms whir softly as they flex and adjust, wiping the blood away before it drips onto his jeans.

He’s got one boot planted against the corpse of a Tyger Claw, head twisted too far to be accidental. They’d been following him since the bar. Maybe they recognized him. Maybe they were just looking for trouble. Either way, they got the Devil tonight.

Elvis wipes the blade clean on the man’s sleeve, then tucks the knife back into his boot. The alley smells like burnt rubber, ozone, and copper. The body’s still warm.

Above him, the blinking holo-sign for “FUKU-BURGER” sputters with static and flickers out entirely. Classic.

He leans back against the brick wall, exhaling. There’s blood on his freckled throat, smeared across the jawline beneath a silver hoop piercing. His yellow cyber-eyes scan the dark like a predator checking for second rounds.

He's tired. Not sleepy, exhausted. That kind of bone-deep, soul-rotting fatigue that doesn’t fade with rest. The kind you earn. The kind you live in.

He rolls his neck, hears the faint click of artificial tendons.

Elvis should leave. Should be heading back to his apartment in the Glen, or that dump he sometimes crashes in when he doesn’t want to be found. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. He likes the quiet. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to face the silence of home.

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it with the flick of a flame built into the joint of his thumb. Another modification. Another patch on a man made more of chrome than luck.

Smoke curls from his lips. The alley hums. Then, something moves in the corner of his eye. A shadow at the far end. Not loud. Elvis doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. The glowing end of the cigarette pulses in the dark as he takes another drag, lazy and unbothered.

"Careful," he mutters finally, voice rough with smoke and blood. "People end up dead down here." He flicks ash onto the Tyger Claw’s chest without looking. "And I’m not in the mood to clean up twice."

Night City never sleeps. Even at three in the morning, the streets of Watson are a fever dream of flickering neon, oil slick pavement, and synth beats thumping from some nearby club that hasn’t closed its doors in six years. The air tastes like cigarette ashes, damp with the kind of fog that rolls in only after something’s gone very, very wrong.

Elvis Marks stands in the alley behind the Black Chrome Dive, boots planted wide in a pool of someone else's blood. His jacket sticks slightly to his shoulder where a blade nicked the seam. The chrome of his left arm gleams, still wet with red. He lets out a breath through his nose, slow, calm, the kind of quiet exhale that comes not from peace but satisfaction.

He didn’t start the fight, not technically. But he sure as hell finished it.

His devil mask lies discarded by his foot, the chrome surface catching a flicker of red from a faulty sign overhead: “NO FUTURE”, blinking like prophecy. Elvis wipes a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his piercings catching the light as he moves. His yellow eyes— artificial, sharp, cruel in the right angle —scan the bodies slumped against the graffiti-tagged wall.

Gangoons. Maelstrom rejects, or something like them. They’d been running a side hustle robbing small-time joytoy stalls under the guise of “protection.” They picked the wrong girl to hassle tonight. Elvis hadn’t even planned to intervene. He was just walking home, earbuds in, a cigarette halfway lit. But something about the way the leader had barked orders reminded him of his uncle.

He didn’t even feel himself moving until the first punch landed. After that, it was muscle memory. Gunshots. Screams. Knives. Teeth.

Now the alley is quiet, except for the hum of a distant AV and the wet drip of rain from an overhang.

Elvis leans against the wall, head back, eyes half-lidded. A snake tattoo coils down the side of his throat, nearly disappearing beneath the collar of his hoodie. He’s breathing heavy, not from exertion, but from the adrenaline crash. The buzz. The hit of purpose, temporary and sharp, like a shot of cheap synth. It’s always gone too fast.

He taps a code into the mask’s wrist-link and watches as it folds up with a mechanical hiss. A small, concealed slot in his backpack swallows it whole. His secret identity, tucked away like a dirty habit.

“Elvis John Marks,” he mutters to himself with a grimace, mocking the full weight of his name. “Congratulations. You beat up five assholes and no one even saw it.”

He stubs out his cigarette on the concrete and tosses the butt aside. It lands near a glimmering shard of broken chrome, part of someone’s cyberhand, twitching faintly before going still.

Another reminder: this city never gives trophies. Only scars.

From inside his jacket, he pulls a small cloth and begins wiping down his handgun with methodical ease. His fingers work fast, unthinking. Muscle memory again. He checks the chamber, slides it back into its holster, and exhales.

Someone approaches, he can see them out of the corner of his eye.

Elvis tilts his head slightly, just enough to hear better without revealing too much. He doesn’t reach for his gun, not yet. But his posture shifts. Relaxed, on the surface. Ready to snap like a switchblade underneath.

"You want something?" He asks without turning.