In Cyberpunk, Watch Your Back—Hospitals Are Death's Doorstep

In the world of cyberpunk, always watch your back. Hospitals are the places closest to death. Ironically, though they're meant to save lives, they're where the most people die. Naturally, the stench of death dominates those spaces. And each place has its own unique aroma of mortality—sometimes the cold, fishy reek of cooling corpses, other times the acrid stink of shit from those slowly awaiting the end.

The Clinic Center was a hospital saturated with the metallic tang of blood. A smell you might encounter in a slaughterhouse where beasts are butchered like animals—a scent no civilized society should ever have to endure. Patients closed their eyes in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠prayer for survival, only to never open them again. In operating rooms, treatment chambers, hospital beds. Blood's iron bite permeated everywhere. The only ones free from that stench were the high-end package clients. Even mid-tier packages couldn't escape this evil.

But the owners of the blood filling the hospital that day weren't patients.

"Fuck! What the hell is that!!"

On the hospital's top floor—the level with a massive "Authorized Personnel Only" sign at the entrance—unusual shouts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and screams echoed through.

"Intruder! What the fuck are the guys downstairs doing?!"

Amon didn't answer. Most of them are dead already. Cleanly taken out before they could even report upward. He'd stuck to stealth and assassination to reach the top floor, but now that only the summit remained, there was no need for subtlety. Plus, with only staff up here, no innocent bystanders to worry about.

"Amen."

Amon sprinted down the corridor, bone saw in one hand, a bundle of scalpels in the other. Each swing of the enigmatic bone saw, infused with mysterious energy, sliced through human bone as if made for it. The scalpels he hurled struck the guards' throats with precision.

The guards didn't go down without a fight. They fired guns, swung blades, trying to halt Amon's charge. But Amon carved through them in movements no human could dream of producing. He'd dash straight ahead, then slide left or right like oil on water, or close meters in a single step.

"What the hell implant is that?!"

It wasn't like neural acceleration gear. Amon's motions were just barely trackable by the eye, yet utterly free from inertia or gravity. Facing this unseen technique, the guards couldn't even guess at its nature.

They've never seen it used like this. Amon severed a shocked guard's cervical vertebrae while pushing his legs to their limit. Sky Step seemed simple—a triple jump defying gravity—but its applications were endless. With enough leg strength, it allowed three accelerations per step, mid-air direction changes without touching ground. It could even mimic near-teleportation dashes from comics. The game reflected this; essences unlocked double dashes or pure steps. No wonder it was zero-tier essence.

Megacorps knew these tricks too, making Sky Step essential for combat personnel at security chief level and above. Amon wove through the corridor like a storm, piling up guard corpses. No guilt stirred in him. The horrors he'd witnessed on the way up only fueled his rage.

Is that something humans should do?

Just the experiment logs from the fourth-floor inpatient rooms were unimaginable for any human hand.

Similar horrors filled the logs from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fifth, sixth, and seventh floors. Experiments so nauseating you could barely read them. Guards didn't just enable this—they actively assisted. Electroshocking patients if needed, inducing stress with gun barrels to their heads. Sometimes shooting limbs on purpose. No room for guilt toward such scum.

"Kill that bastard!!"

The initial roars to kill Amon shifted to "Fuck! Where'd that monster come from?!" in shock, then "Spare me!!" "Open the door! Open it!!" in terror as time passed. Soon, only three guards remained, pathetically pounding on a door. Amon's shadow fell over their backs amid the flickering lights. Blood-splattered, he loomed as they looked up, surrendering without fight.

"Please! I don't know anything!"

"Money? If it's money, I'll give you as much as you want!"

"Family issues? If that's it, I'll testify for you! So—"

Slash.

Amon showed no mercy even to the terrified. Three more skulls joined the corridor's collection. He shoved aside the headless corpses and eyed the door they'd battered.

Director's Office

Clank clank. The heavy steel door wouldn't budge. Locked from inside.

Fine, I've got a plan for that.

Amon leaped out a nearby window. Mid-air, he Sky Stepped to twist toward the adjacent pane. Through it, he saw the director anxiously peering at the iron door.

Got you.

He kicked off nothing and hurled the bone saw. Crash! Glass shattered; the director's head snapped toward the noise, but too late—the saw was already buried in his shoulder.

"Gaaahk!!"

The chair-bound director toppled. Before he could scream properly, Amon vaulted through the broken window. And before the man recovered, Amon plunged a confiscated katana through his chest.

"Gurgle..."

The scream leaked out perforated lungs as a wet rasp. Trembling, the director stared at Amon.

"Wha..."

Before words formed, Amon yanked the bone saw free and slashed his throat. The head rolled across the floor.

Amon shoved the impaled body aside, righted the fallen chair, and immediately worked the computer.

Need evidence.

The brokerage boss had greenlit Amon's rampage on one condition: secure proof that this hospital's staff were scum worth devouring. Only then could they leverage blackmail or negotiation for cover. Hence, Amon needed the director's files. He scanned and copied to USB.

He stood.

"Think of it as karmic retribution."

Shing. He withdrew the sword from the director and sheathed it. Stepping through the pooling blood, Amon exited the office. The corpse-strewn ward stretched before him. Unlike the entry, the path out was silent. In that quiet, his mind cooled and began turning.

He'd gone berserk seeing his and Sonia's names on the subject list. But post-rampage, oddities emerged.

Why acquaintances?

Even with scarce samples, why kidnap via cops? Family would've been easier—like using Hump's brother to snag Hump. Guardians were simpler. Acquaintances felt... off. Too broad.

Neighbors, shop owners he knew. Why specify "party members"?

Just before the back door, Amon halted, pondering blankly.

Something's missing.

Maybe the premise was wrong. His mind raced. Then he recalled the report format from the first doctor's PC.

Amon Perfumrose, Sonia Perfumrose, Orc Tanker, Elf Mage...

"Huh?"

Amon's shoulders twitched. One hypothesis explained it all.

"No way..."

To test it, he grabbed the back door handle. Then—

Instinct screamed. No baseless hunch. The other side was too quiet. Even for a back alley.

He released the handle, climbed to the second floor, and peeked from a window. Beastmen aimed at the back door. And in their midst—a familiar face.

Paul...!

The trash party's trash machine gunner. Bear beastman, Paul.

***

In the Clinic Center's back alley, amid beastmen aiming at the door, a cat beastman whispered to Paul.

"Boss. Can't we just rush in?"

Paul waved his meaty, tattooed palm dismissively. "Don't be stupid. He's a close-range fighter. I shot him in the back once, and he reacted to the bullets. Gear's top-notch too—if I'd aimed openly, I'd be dead."

"Different from our usual scrub deliveries?"

"Kid, it's not just different. Give him range, and he'll take all our heads."

"Boss... isn't that risky? Better to stick to natural picks like those slime-bait losers last time."

A rabbit beastman perked its ears in agreement beside the anxious cat. "Yeah, boss. He even handled scavengers, right? Sure, they're a tier below us, but still dangerous."

Ripples of unease spread. "Hospital probably called backup and went first."

"No loyalty to dead guys anyway."

"Worth the risk?"

Before the fight, the group lost nerve en masse. Muzzles drooped toward the ground.

Paul addressed them. "Sell that guy's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gear, and we're done with this shitty life. Guaranteed."

"Huh?"

"Kill him, sell the gear or keep it—we level up from crew to gang."

"But too risky."

"Sure. If he's at full strength. Which he's not."

"Huh?"

"Never expected the Clinic to kill him outright. Just wanted them to strip gear and wear him down."

"You mean..."

"Think logically. No way he's unscathed after fighting those guards."

Muzzles lifted. Hope spread. They justified themselves.

"Yeah, time to cut ties with the hospital anyway."

"They've been eyeing us for a dump lately."

"They'd pin it all on us. Clean like this."

Paul's lips curled as he heard. The cat, swept up, praised. "Hunting basics: exhaust the prey first! Right?!"

"Yeah."

The crew rallied. Confidence bloomed—they could drop a wounded Amon. Some already plotted gear upgrades and lifestyles from the spoils. Paul approved; confident hunters beat fearful ones.

Riding the momentum, Paul dropped news. "Cop buddy checked the database—that guy's got a wife. Sonia Rose or something? Orphan too, easy mark. Bait him with Amon, done."

"Gotta keep Amon alive then?"

"Head's enough. Newlyweds. Snap a pic, she'll come running."

"Hot?"

"Big tits."

"Hell yeah."

The rabbit puffed its crotch. Lust buried fear; eyes locked on the back door—and the bomb on the handle.

"Come on out, bunny."

A wolf licked its lips.

"You call me?"

The rabbit eyed the wolf weirdly.

"Not you."

The wolf grimaced. Light chuckles rippled; focus returned. Bored in the wait, a tiger muttered.

"When's the rabbit coming?"

Then—

"You call me?"

"No—" Slash.

The tiger's head flew before answering. The two beside him followed.

"Huh?"

A dagger pierced the dumbstruck wolf's throat. "When!?" The rabbit split vertically from the groin.

Blood geysered from five beastmen. Amon spoke amid the downpour, beside the corpses and kin.

"Hi. I'm Amon. I'm right behind you now."