404: Doom Not Found

- 11 years before canon -

"You smell that?"

"Yeah," River Ward said, pulling up the collar of his jacket as they walked the perimeter of the scorched residence. "It's not just burning metal. There's something chemical in it. You don't get that kind of burn from cheap fires."

Harold Han grunted. "Thermite. Or something like it. High-temp composition—military grade. Someone wanted this place wiped off the grid."

Both men stood in the dim wash of NCPD tactical drones. The compound, once a fixer's safehouse, now looked like a battlefield. Twisted rebar. Melted plastic. Blood. The corpses hadn't even been tagged yet.

River moved forward, boots crunching over ash and shards of charred cyberware. The scent clung to the back of his throat, like burnt teeth and ozone.

"What do we know about the place?" River asked, crouching by what remained of the garage door.

Han, older, seasoned, and perpetually tired, checked his datapad. "Gina Javarez. Local fixer. Mid-tier had some weight in Watson and parts of Heywood. But to be honest, most likely low-tier. No official beef with any major gangs—kept things balanced, paid off who she had to."

River squinted at the melted wreckage of the car embedded in the front of the building. "Didn't look balanced to me."

"No," Han agreed. "This wasn't a turf war. This was a message. Clean hit. No survivors."

"Clean hit? Overstatement of the year, besides, she's still alive," River corrected.

Han grunted. "Barely. And from the looks of her brain activity, she won't be giving us anything more useful than a heartbeat."

They both fell silent.

N54 News hovered at the edge of the police line, cameras snapping, drones recording statements from a bored-looking sergeant. Already, the media was trying to spin this as another gang-on-gang skirmish, maybe a Voodoo Boys hit gone sideways.

But River had seen enough violence to recognise something different.

"Whoever did this," he murmured, "was surgical. No stray shots. No overkill. Everything with purpose. This wasn't random."

He analysed the way the corpses dropped and saw that none of the fresh gunshot markings were missed. The perpetrator hit 100% of shots. 

Han gave him a sidelong look. "You're not wrong. But here's the thing, rookie—no one's gonna chase this. Gina wasn't a saint. The city's safer with her off the table. Every corp with a stake in Night City will let this fade. You want to go digging, you better be ready to make enemies."

River said nothing for a long moment.

His eyes settled on the broken security cam mounted across the street, scorched, but not completely destroyed.

"…Then maybe I'll just ask a few questions."

Han chuckled without humour. "That's what I said when I was your age. Then I learned it's the ones asking questions who end up in the morgue."

They both looked back at the building.

Inside, a medic zipped up a scorched corpse missing most of its cybernetics.

The damage was too clean. Too precise. Not Valentinos. Not Maelstrom.

"We got any footage of the perp?" River inquired.

Han's voice lowered, his eyes turning to look around, "You ever hear of a guy running around in some chrome mask?"

River turned to look at him.

"No," he said. "But I've got a feeling I'm going to."

The feed crackled to life, flickering across countless flickering screens in dive bars, corner shops, and cluttered apartments.

"This is N54 Nightline. I'm Alessa Tran—bringing you breaking developments in what's now being described as one of the most violent gang-related incidents this quarter."

The camera panned slowly across the smoking husk of a building in Heywood, gutted and blackened, as synthetic string instruments hummed behind the voice. News drones hovered like vultures, shining sterile spotlights over twisted debris and shattered glass.

Alessa Tran sat centred beneath the N54 logo, posture perfect, lips pursed in practised concern. She was dressed like every other mouthpiece: tailored blazer, corporate blue eyes, and a voice smooth enough to shave chrome.

"Sources within the NCPD have confirmed that multiple casualties occurred late last night, following a targeted explosion and close-quarters firefight. The victim at the centre of the incident? Gina Javarez—commonly referred to as Gina J—a fixer with known affiliations to the Valentinos."

A heavily redacted dossier flickered onto the screen behind her. Gina's face was visible for only a moment—youthful, smirking, already outdated. Half her record was buried behind corporate firewalls and deniability.

"Preliminary reports suggest that the building was being used to broker unauthorised cyberware transactions and possibly data trafficking—though investigators have yet to confirm whether the information in question was domestic or foreign in origin."

The feed cut to grainy footage of a car burning bright enough to mimic daylight, its hood cratered inward, thermite chemicals still hissing faintly beneath the wreckage. A chorus of screams filtered through the static—muted, distant, and effective.

"Investigators are tight-lipped about the cause of the blast, though one high-ranking source confirmed the use of thermite—a weapon not typically associated with local gangs. This has led some to question whether the incident may be the latest in a string of anti-corporate acts carried out by fringe elements operating outside of Night City's grid."

The screen shifted again—now to a sharp-jawed man in a silver suit. A security analyst. No name. No rank. Just a voice.

"What we're seeing," he said, "is the breakdown of security infrastructure. Extremist types. Anarchists with military-grade tech. They see corporate systems as threats, not structure. And that kind of ideology? It doesn't just disappear. It spreads."

"Could this be linked to foreign networks?" the interviewer asked.

The analyst smiled, carefully. "I'm not at liberty to say. But I will say this—there are certain factions who benefit from destabilisation. What happened tonight wasn't random."

Back in the studio, Alessa returned to the frame, hands folded, expression appropriately sombre.

"When asked for comment, Arasaka spokespersons denied any direct involvement, but assured citizens they remain committed to restoring order. Meanwhile, NCPD detectives, including Detective River Ward and his senior partner Harold Han, have been assigned to the case."

The names were dropped like stones into the water—ripples outward, reminders that someone would pretend to chase justice.

"Javarez, though currently in critical condition, has been ruled unfit to testify after what doctors are calling catastrophic neural damage. While alive, her prognosis is… uncertain."

They didn't show her face again. Not after that.

Instead, the screen faded to grey-blue with a prompt:"If you have information related to this event, please contact our encrypted N54 tipline."

Back with the cop duo, they continued their investigation. 

"Fuck me," Han muttered, stepping through the scorched frame of what used to be a door. His boots crunched on shattered glass and bone-dry concrete, the ground still warm beneath the ash. "I think surgical is an understatement..."

River Ward followed close behind, adjusting the holster under his coat. The stink of burnt chrome and synthetic fabric clung to the air, thick as a coffin lid. Someone had cooked this place with thermite — probably from a distance, probably with a smile.

"Looks like Gina J's whole safehouse got turned inside out," River said, glancing toward what was left of the second floor. "And yet she's still breathing. Why go through all this and leave her alive?"

Han crouched near a blackened chunk of wall, squinting at the melted frame of what might've been a comms unit. '"Cause someone wanted her to suffer. Make a statement. Torch her brain but keep the meat breathing. That's not just violence — that's art. Sick fucking art."

River scanned the room slowly. EMTs worked without words, two officers watching the perimeter while forensics bagged what wasn't glued to the floor. The whole scene buzzed low under a haze of sirens and city hum.

"She's fried pretty bad," River said. "They're saying her neural net's burnt clean through. The operating system had no way of defending itself before it fried. Damage was applied externally."

"Better than dead, if you're into sending messages." Han rose with a grunt, dusting his hands off. "Bet her contact list's been wiped too. But even if it wasn't, you really think she'd name who did this?"

River's eyes narrowed. "You think it's gang shit? Valentinos settling beef?"

Han scoffed. "Nah. Valentinos don't use thermite. Too loud. Too flashy. This was someone with a point to make — and eddies to burn."

"Mercs?"

"Maybe. Or some pissed-off psycho with a chemistry set."

River turned to one of the charred walls, where faint graffiti curled up from under layers of scorched paint — a once-vibrant tag now reduced to ember-scrawl. He exhaled, slow. "Place used to be neutral ground. Fixers met here. Now it's another body count for the city to ignore."

Han shook his head. "Neutral don't mean shit anymore, kid. Night City's running out of middlemen. You're either predator or prey. Gina picked the wrong day to play the wrong hand."

Across the street, the N54 crew was already packing up. River had caught the feed earlier: the news anchor threading a tight narrative, one that smelled like Corpo spin.

"Let me guess," River muttered. "N54's already pointing fingers?"

"Some corpo sabotage. Logistics breach. Whisper of Arasaka, but nothing they'll say on record."

River turned back toward the debris. "You believe that?"

Han gave a dry laugh. "I believe a fixer got lit up with a fuckin' military-grade payload in the middle of Jap town. That's all I need to believe someone important's involved."

River knelt near a smouldering heap of wiring, picking through the slag with a gloved hand. "Maybe Gina stumbled on something she wasn't supposed to."

"Or maybe she was holding onto something worth dying for."

"Either way," River muttered, standing again, "feels like we're two steps behind."

Han clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to real cop work, kid. You chase smoke 'til it burns you, or you just keep breathing it in until you forget what clean air smelled like."

"You always this optimistic?"

"Only on Mondays."

"It's Thursday."

"Exactly."

A tech called out from the perimeter, holding up a partially melted shard of chrome — some kind of ID chip. Han waved them over without much hope in his eyes.

"Let's bag it. Maybe the lab'll get lucky."

"Doubt it," River muttered, eyeing the empty street beyond the crime scene. "This one's got ghost prints all over it."

Han nodded. "Then we dig until the ghost gets sloppy."

They stood there for a moment, side by side, watching the slow dance of lights across the ruined block. Somewhere above them, a city kept spinning — uncaring, relentless, and hungry.

But down here, in the ash and silence, the hunt had just begun.

---

"Place lit up like a fuckin' warzone."A low voice cut through the static of synth-heavy jazz and muted clinks of glass.

Rogue didn't lift her eyes from the glass she was polishing. It was habit, more than service. Afterlife didn't pour loyalty with the whiskey anymore—just silence, paydays, and eyes that watched too much.

"I'm tellin' you," said the solo at the bar—grizzled, silver-haired, muscle-bound under a coat stitched with steel filament. "Whole block's fried. Streetcams dead. Internal feeds cooked. You don't torch a fixer like that unless you've got a death wish… or someone's bankrolling it heavy."

A few chuckled—cynical, wary. More ears turned. Names weren't passed easily here. But word had traveled fast. The Gina J hit was loud, messy, and clean in all the wrong ways. No survivors except the fixer—left drooling with her cortex fried.

"You think it was corpo?" asked a younger merc. He still had both eyebrows and a clean cut down his jaw—too green. "No way a street kid pulls that off without some serious backing."

The grizzled solo exhaled smoke. "Nah. Corp moves don't leave thermite signatures. That was personal."

From deeper in the booth, a woman in matte black leathers leaned forward. Her eyes, chromed purple, reflected the flickering vidscreen overhead where a N54 anchor read off half-truths about a "gang-related incident."

"No feed's been recovered," she said. "No drone footage. Nothing clean. Building's fried from the inside out. Like someone scrambled the whole block's grid and then went house by house with a flame."

"Gina must've pissed someone off real bad," another muttered. "Fixers got enemies, but no one wastes assets like that."

"Unless they're not comin' back to cash in," the woman replied.

Someone else laughed—dry, amused. "Or maybe she sold out the wrong name, and he decided to make a point."

At that, Rogue finally looked up. Just once. No words.

The laughter faded.

Another merc—slim, quiet, spoke from behind a half-finished drink."Someone said the shooter wore a mask."

"Yeah?"

"A silverish metal thing. Looked custom. Scav-metal. Probably reinforced with heat shielding."

"Pfft," the silver-haired one scoffed. "So what, some cosplay chromejock goes all Phantom of the Opera and dumps a building in fire? That don't track."

"Don't gotta believe it," the quiet man said. "But people are startin' to talk. They're callin' him Ghost."

"Ghost?" the rookie scoffed. "That's the best they got?"

"No... It's more accurate to say that they're calling him 'Tetsu no yūrei' the ghost of iron."

Rogue set the glass down. "Nicknames spread faster than bullets in this city," she said calmly. "Especially when nobody's got footage. That's how legends start."

Another merc leaned over from the next booth. "I heard Gina's place was full of high-value gear. Unmarked credchips. Data shards. That thermite took out more than just bodies. Someone wanted to erase the evidence."

"No. They wanted to send a message," the woman with the purple eyes murmured. "The kind that leaves a crater."

A beat passed. Then Rogue spoke again, cool and low.

"Doesn't matter if it was corpo, street, or something in between. Whoever did it… set explosives in Night City, of all places. You don't do that unless you've already made peace with dying—or unless you think you're untouchable."

"Or unless," someone muttered, "you think you're above them all."

No one responded.

The room, already dim, seemed to lean into the silence.

From the far end of the bar, a monitor flickered again, static dancing across corrupted news footage. No visuals. Just fire, chaos, and a smouldering ruin.

But not a single face.

Not a single name.

Just whispered stories of a man with a mask… and a city finally noticing.