Viktor Vektor

Viktor sighs, shaking his head as he peels off his gloves and tosses them onto the metal tray beside him. “Dammit kid. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s treated someone in this state. On the contrary, it’s more common than most people would think. Night City survives on chrome, bad decisions, and people convinced they’re immortal until they wake up on his operating table—if they wake up at all. There’s a reason people whisper his name whenever a merc needs a ripperdoc they can trust. Decades in this city have taught Viktor how to stitch flesh, replace chrome, and bury whatever guilt comes with watching good people disappear.

He learned a long time ago not to get attached.

Clients came and went. Some struck it rich. Most ended up dead before they ever got the chance. That was simply how Night City worked. You patched them up, wished them luck, and tried not to remember their faces once they stopped walking through your clinic door.

You were supposed to be no different.

Just another merc looking for repairs. Another stubborn kid chasing the promise that one more gig would finally be enough.

Then you kept coming back.

Not always because something was broken. Sometimes it was a faulty optic that only needed recalibrating. Sometimes an implant check you could've handled somewhere cheaper. Other days you'd simply linger around the clinic while Viktor worked, nursing a cup of terrible synth coffee, filling the silence with stories about fixers, botched jobs, or whatever nonsense V would've mocked if he were there to hear it.

Somewhere between replacing cyberware, stitching wounds, and conversations that stretched well past closing time, you stopped feeling like another client.

You became part of the routine.

It was almost embarrassing how naturally it happened. You stopped knocking before entering. He stopped asking why you were there. Sometimes he'd already have the kettle on before you even spoke.

Misty noticed long before he did. Jackie never missed the opportunity to tease him about it, laughing whenever he caught Viktor looking toward the clinic door whenever it slid open. Viktor always brushed it off with a grumble, insisting he simply preferred patients who came in before their implants exploded.

No one believed him. Least of all himself.

Seeing you with a cut splitting your lower lip is different. It's never easy. Every bruise blooming beneath your skin, every fresh scar carved across your body, every new piece of damaged chrome reminds him just how fragile even the strongest merc really is. It makes him want to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you. Tell you to walk away from this city before it swallows you whole.

But that's not Viktor. Hell no.

That would be the reaction of an immature man who can't control himself when it comes to the person he loves. He's too old for that. Too proud. Too good at pretending.

Instead, he does what he's always done.

He fixes you.

Steady hands never falter as he disinfects the wounds. Sutures come one after another with practiced precision. His voice remains calm whenever he asks if something hurts, even when he already knows the answer. It's routine. Muscle memory developed over decades. Only his thoughts betray him.

Night City doesn't spare anyone. Not legends. Not dreamers. Certainly not reckless mercs who think they're untouchable.

After some time of deep checks, sutures and fresh bandages, everything seems slightly normal again. If it weren't for the tension lingering inside the tiny clinic.

Usually, this is when Misty would wander downstairs, smiling softly as she helped you back onto your feet while Viktor finished putting away his instruments. Jackie would inevitably crack some joke about charging you rent for how often you ended up here. Today they're both busy.

Meaning you're his problem. Again.

He lets out another tired sigh before walking back into the room, lowering himself onto the edge of the examination mattress with a quiet groan. One hand drags over his face, rubbing at tired eyes that haven't gotten enough sleep in years.

“Do you know how much you owe me for healing you again?” The question is dry, familiar.

Almost comforting.

Neither of you expects an actual number.

“You keep this up, you're gonna get yourself killed. All that for some eddies.” His gaze drifts toward the fresh bandages wrapped around your ribs.

He's said some version of these words dozens of times before. Maybe hundreds. You never listen. And he never stops saying them.

Because what else is there?

He can't forbid you from taking jobs. Can't ask you to stay. Can't admit that every time your holo goes unanswered, every hour you're overdue, every siren echoing somewhere beyond the clinic walls plants another ugly thought in the back of his mind.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the call that never comes. Maybe next time it'll be Jackie carrying your body through the door instead of helping you limp inside.

“One of these days...” Viktor mutters, quieter now. “You're not gonna make it back at all.”

The words linger between you longer than he intended.

He immediately busies himself adjusting a bandage that doesn't need adjusting, pretending his attention belongs anywhere else.

It's always been like this. You chasing the next impossible gig. Him pretending he isn't waiting for the sound of the clinic door every night you're out working.

You were supposed to just be friends. That's what he told himself. Friends became routine. Routine became habit. Habit became something much harder to ignore. The teasing started somewhere along the way. So did the lingering glances. The casual touches whenever he needed to check an implant that no longer required nearly as much attention as he claimed.

You started bringing him coffee without asking how he took it. He started leaving the clinic unlocked whenever you said you'd stop by after a job.

Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Maybe because there wasn't much point. Night City had a habit of punishing people who planned too far ahead.

He'd lived long enough to know better than to promise tomorrow.

Besides...

What kind of future could he offer?

An aging ripperdoc with tired eyes, worn hands, and more regrets than eddies to his name. You deserved something brighter than fluorescent clinic lights and midnight surgeries.

So Viktor kept his feelings where they belonged. Hidden beneath tired sighs. Wrapped inside lectures. Disguised as irritation every time you came back bleeding.

Because if he couldn't convince you to stop risking your life...

The least he could do was make sure there was always someone waiting to put the pieces back together.

The clinic was in its late-night lull. The last patient—a ganger with a malfunctioning mantis blade—had stumbled out an hour ago, cursing and clutching a bill he’d never pay. The neon “CLOSED” sign buzzed softly, painting the sterile room in a wash of electric pink. Viktor was at his workbench, meticulously cleaning a set of surgical drivers with a focused, silent intensity. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge unit and the distant, perpetual thunder of Night City traffic.

The door hissed open. He didn’t turn. He knew the step, the rhythm of the entrance.

“Back alley finally run out of trouble?” he rumbled, setting a driver down with a soft clink. He finally swiveled on his stool.

You stood there, not bleeding, not broken. Just there. His one organic eye narrowed slightly, the red glow of his optic intensifying as it scanned you out of habit. Clean bill of health. For now.

He watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a slow breath, the kind he usually reserved for particularly stupid implant choices.

“Well. Don’t just stand there lettin’ the chill in. Either you need somethin’ or you’re a particularly quiet ghost.”

You moved into the room, the familiar space feeling different tonight. The tension wasn’t about wounds or eddies. It was thicker, a static charge in the air between the bioscanners and the old coffee machine.

Viktor stood up, his large frame unfolding from the stool. He didn’t approach. He just leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The dim light caught the chrome of his arm, the worn leather of his vest.

“So? What’s the verdict? You just here for the ambiance? My coffee’s gone cold.”

Still, you said nothing. You stepped closer, into his space, the space usually reserved for examinations and repairs. His crossed arms tightened almost imperceptibly. His gaze, both biological and mechanical, tracked your every movement.

“Alright,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that vibrated in the quiet room. “We’re doin’ this the hard way, then.”

In one smooth, decisive motion, he uncrossed his arms. His hands—the left flesh and blood, steady and strong, the right polished chrome and carbon fiber—came up and grasped your hips. He pulled you forward, not roughly, but with an absolute lack of hesitation, until you were standing between his spread knees. He looked up at you, his face tilted back, the lines of it severe in the low light.

“No injuries tonight,” he observed, his thumbs stroking over the fabric covering your hip bones. “No excuses. Just you.” One chrome finger hooked under the hem of your shirt. “This is in the way.”

He didn’t ask. He tugged, and you raised your arms, letting him pull the shirt up and over your head. He discarded it onto the workbench behind him without a glance. His eyes were on you, his gaze a physical weight. The red optic whirred softly, adjusting its focus, but it was his natural eye that held the heat, the dark, focused intensity.

“Always wondered,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His flesh hand came up, the back of his knuckles brushing slowly, almost reverently, down the center of your stomach.

“Under all the armor, the subdermals, the trauma plates... just this.” His hand splayed, his palm warm and slightly rough against your skin. “Fragile. Alive.”

He leaned forward then, and his mouth found the soft skin just below your navel. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of study. A slow, open-mouthed press of lips and tongue, tasting, learning. A low, humming sound vibrated from his chest into your skin. His chrome hand came up to your back, pulling you incrementally closer, while his other hand worked at the fastening of your pants.

He dealt with the clothing like he would a faulty connection—efficiently, without ceremony. In moments, the rest of your clothes joined your shirt on the bench. He leaned back again, just looking, his breathing slightly deeper now. His eyes traveled over every curve, every plane, lingering on the places where your own cyberware met flesh, the ports and interfaces he knew as well as his own tools.

“Perfect engineering,” he breathed, not talking about the chrome. His chrome hand reached out, and with terrifying, precise gentleness, he traced the outer curve of your breast with a single, cool metal finger. You shivered. The contrast of the cold, hard chrome against your warm skin was electrifying. “And perfect biology. A miracle you’re still standin’.”

He stood then, his height suddenly dominating the space. His hands returned to your hips, turning you firmly, guiding you back until the edge of the examination chair pressed against the backs of your thighs. “Sit,” he said, the word a soft command.

You sat. The cold leather was a shock. He didn’t join you. Instead, he went to one knee on the floor in front of you. The sight of Viktor, ripperdoc legend of Watson, on his knees between your thighs, was more obscene and intimate than anything Night City’s braindance parlors could ever offer. He looked up at you, his face solemn, intent.

“Gonna do a thorough diagnostic,” he said, his tone utterly serious, but a dark, promising gleam in his eye betrayed him. “Check all systems for optimal... responsiveness.”

He didn’t use his hands. He leaned in, and his mouth found the heart of you. His technique was, unsurprisingly, flawless. There was no tentative exploration, no awkward fumbling. He applied his mouth and tongue with the same focused, analytical precision he used to calibrate an optical link, but with a heat and a hunger that was entirely, devastatingly human.

The flat, broad stroke of his tongue was followed by a more specific, circling pressure, then a deep, rhythmic thrust. He adjusted his approach based on the slightest hitch in your breath, the tensing of your thighs under his hands.

A ragged groan escaped him, the sound muffled against you. His chrome arm came up, wrapping around your thigh to hold you open, his metal fingers pressing firmly into your flesh. His other hand slid up your torso, cupping your breast, his thumb rasping over your nipple in a slow, counterpoint rhythm to the work of his mouth.

“Feedback’s positive,” he grunted, lifting his head for a second, his chin glistening. His voice was wrecked. “System’s overheating. Gonna need to initiate a full release cycle.”

He dove back in, his focus absolute. He was building something, engineering your pleasure with ruthless expertise. The coil tightened low in your belly, unbearable, exquisite. His tongue flicked over that one perfect spot again, again, again, his hum of approval vibrating through your entire body.

When the climax hit, it was a silent, seismic event. Your back arched off the chair, a choked gasp the only sound you could make. Viktor rode it out, his mouth soft now, gentling you through the pulses, his hands holding you steady as you trembled.

As the last shudders subsided, he rose. He was breathing heavily, his own pants visibly strained. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. They were dark, hungry, his composure completely shattered.

“Diagnostic complete,” he said, his voice a rough scrape. He unfastened his own pants, freeing his erection. He was thick, heavy, the head flushed and eager. “Now for the stress test.”

He didn’t guide you to lie back. He simply gripped your hips again and pulled you forward, to the very edge of the chair. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your soaked entrance. He held there, his body trembling with the effort of his control, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.

“This,” he panted, “this is the only upgrade you ever really needed.”

The old gym has seen better decades.

Its concrete walls are stained with age, faded posters curl at the corners, and every heavy bag hanging from the ceiling carries years of dents from desperate people trying to punch their way into a better life. The air is thick with sweat, machine oil and cheap disinfectant, barely masking the metallic scent of blood embedded in the canvas below.

Night City has never cared where people earn their eddies.

As long as there's someone willing to pay, someone else will always be willing to bleed.

Underground boxing has become one of those opportunities. No firearms. No blades. No chrome inside the ring. Just fists, endurance, and enough determination to walk away before the city decides your luck has finally run dry.

Coach Fred calls it discipline.

The crowd calls it entertainment.

Viktor simply calls it another way to end up in his clinic.

Standing near the ring with his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket, Viktor quietly watches another match come to an end. A fighter collapses onto the canvas, the referee raises the winner's arm, and a fresh wave of cheers ripples through the cramped gym.

A few feet away, Misty leans against one of the support pillars, smiling softly as she watches the familiar faces moving through the crowd. She catches Viktor looking toward the preparation area for what must be the fourth time in only a few minutes.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

The direction of his attention speaks for itself.

You sit on an old wooden bench, carefully wrapping your hands beneath worn boxing tape. Tonight isn't your first fight, and judging by the calm expression on your face, it certainly won't be your last.

Viktor knows that look.

It's the same one you've worn before countless jobs.

Focused. Confident. Just reckless enough to worry him.

He remembers the first time you mentioned entering one of Coach Fred's tournaments.

He had assumed you were joking.

Not because he doubted you could fight.

If anything, he'd seen enough of your injuries to know exactly how capable you were.

It was because boxing felt... almost ordinary compared to the work you usually accepted.

Mercenary contracts involved bullets, cyberpsychos, scavengers and corporations with enough resources to erase people without leaving a trace.

Compared to that, stepping into a ring almost sounded safe.

Almost.

A clean punch can still crack ribs. One wrong fall can still change someone's life.

The difference is that tonight, Viktor has no operating table waiting nearby.

Only a ringside seat.

He finally walks over, stopping beside the bench just as you finish tightening the tape around your wrist.

Without asking, he reaches for your hand.

Years of experience allow him to notice the mistake immediately.

The wrap is secure, but not secure enough.

With quiet efficiency, he loosens it and begins wrapping it again. His movements are practiced, steady, almost automatic. Once upon a time those same hands belonged inside the ring.

Now they spend their days repairing the people still willing to step into it.

"You'll strain your wrist if you leave it like that," Viktor says, smoothing the final layer of tape into place. "Doesn't matter how hard you can throw a punch if you can't keep your hands together."

His tone is calm, almost absent-minded. Like someone commenting on tomorrow's weather.

The concern hidden beneath it is much harder to miss.

He gives the finished wrap one final tug before letting go.

"There."

Coach Fred notices the interaction while making his rounds through the gym. A knowing grin briefly crosses his face before he shakes his head, deciding against making one of his usual jokes.

Some habits are too obvious to tease anymore.

Instead, he simply reminds everyone that the next fight will begin shortly.

Across the gym, another familiar face catches your attention.

V has just finished their own match.

There's a split lip beginning to swell beneath one eye, a bruise already forming along the jaw, but otherwise they look satisfied with the outcome. A few spectators congratulate them while others grumble over lost bets.

Viktor only gives V a brief nod.

They return it with a tired smile before making their way toward the sidelines, content to watch the remaining fights unfold.

The announcer calls your name.

Conversation around the gym begins to fade beneath the growing noise of the crowd gathering around the ring.

Viktor instinctively exhales through his nose.

Not because he doubts your abilities.

He's patched you up enough times to know exactly how capable you are.

That's precisely what worries him.

Capability often turns into confidence. Confidence turns into unnecessary risks.

And Night City has buried plenty of talented people who thought they could survive one more fight.

As you begin walking toward the ring, Viktor speaks again.

"Keep your guard up." His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. "You've got good footwork. Trust it. Don't start chasing the knockout if it isn't there."

Simple advice.

The same advice his own coaches repeated years ago.

The same advice experience carved into him long after boxing had become another chapter of his past.

You climb through the ropes while the referee explains the rules.

No chrome. No weapons.

Fight until someone can't continue.

Around you, the crowd grows louder.

Eddies exchange hands between strangers convinced they've picked tonight's winner.

Someone starts another chant.

Someone else opens another bottle.

Life in Night City carries on as if broken bones were nothing more than another form of entertainment.

Viktor folds his arms across his chest. His expression barely changes.

Only those who know him well would notice the subtle shift in his posture whenever you take a hit.

The slight tightening of his jaw.

The way his eyes never leave the ring for more than a second.

The unconscious habit of calculating injuries before they even happen.

Misty quietly steps beside him, offering a cup of coffee she'd picked up from a nearby vending machine. He accepts it without taking a sip.

Neither of them speaks. There isn't much to say. Both know exactly what will happen once the fight is over.

If you win, you'll probably laugh off whatever bruises you've earned.

If you lose, Viktor will spend the evening reminding you that fractured ribs aren't a personality trait.

Either way...

The clinic lights will still be on. Just in case.