404: Doom Not Found

- 10 years before canon -

Burned pavement still steamed from where a homemade mine had scorched it, warping the concrete.

Shell casings were few, surprisingly so, and the bodies—nineteen in total—were neatly bagged and tagged.

An entire squad of Tyger Claws, including two confirmed lieutenants, gone. Annihilated. Executed with what could only be described as precision.

Detective River Ward crouched near one of the corpses. The wounds were bizarre: close-range, tactical, no signs of panic or overkill. Just two to the chest, one to the head. The Mozambique drill, clean and professional. No scorch marks from Sandevistans. No errant blades. Just clean death.

"You're quiet," came a voice behind him.

River glanced up. Detective Han stood over him, frowning, a fresh holopad in hand. His face was tight. Focused. Tired.

"I'm thinking," River replied. "This wasn't a shootout. It was a massacre."

Han nodded. "Yeah. Not just that. It was surgical. Look—" he tapped her pad, overlaying a top-down map of Lizzie's Bar, augmented with combat telemetry reconstructed from minor net leaks and fragmented surveillance.

"Every point of entry was blocked. Power cut at exactly 22:14. Vent systems compromised with nonlethal dispersal gas—likely to interfere with Sandevistans. They couldn't even move fast enough to escape. And whoever did it?"

She turned the pad around, showing the infrared timestamped readings from a hacked city drone.

"One heat signature. Just one."

River stood slowly, dusting off his hands. "A single operator. Against nineteen Tyger Claws."

"Plus two lieutenants," Han added. "You don't just walk away from that unless you're cybered to hell… or not human."

River's brow twitched. He didn't like the word supernatural. Not in a city like this. Too many idiots threw it around when their tech couldn't explain something.

"Still no leads?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Han sighed. "Camera footage's scrambled. Again. Not cut—scrambled. Actively. Like someone ran a distortion field across every relevant angle. None of the city grid cams caught a clear frame."

He switched to the stills they did have—blurry, warped shots of a figure in armour, featureless and indistinct. The only consistent thing was the presence of a reflective green visor. No visible emblem, no faction tags.

Han tapped her nail against the screen. "And he didn't leave a trace. No biometric residue. No ejected shells. Even the hacking's clean. Like he scrubbed after himself."

"You know who does that?" River said quietly. "Ghost operators. Corpo shadow units. Mercs off the leash."

Han's mouth tightened. "MaxTac doesn't think it's theirs. We asked."

"Of course not. They wouldn't admit it if it was theirs."

He crossed his arms. "Doesn't matter. We've got dead gangers, four dead contracted solos, a club owner who won't say shit and a bunch of dead joytoys. All we're left with is…" He scrolled to the last line of the internal report.

Codename rumoured on the street:

El Silenciador.

"Sounds like a nickname you give to a nightmare," he muttered.

River didn't answer. He looked around the scene again. Twenty-two lives ended in under fifteen minutes. The gangers hadn't even fired off coordinated counter-fire. Most died with their weapons holstered.

And yet, whoever had done this had taken time to make it look like gang violence. The mines, the gas, the hacked AV relay system—there was an art to it. A logic. It was done not just to kill… but to send a message.

Han sighed. "You think this Doom is a myth? A cover for a team? Corpo black baggers, maybe?"

River didn't respond right away. He watched the sunlight catch the scorched metal of one of the lieutenant's Mantis blades. The body was broken clean through the spine—like something had cracked him at just the right angle.

He muttered, "If this is a myth, then Night City's gods just got new competition."

Han rubbed his brows and spoke.

"I've chased punks with sandies. I've dealt with Maelstrom freaks hopped up on rageware. I've even seen Trauma Team's psycho squads go full carnage. But I've never seen one guy—one—take out this many without backup."

He rubbed at his temples. "We're gonna catch heat for this."

"The department?" River questioned.

"No. Us. This gets political. Public pressure's already boiling over. Corpo lobbying. Tyger Claws aren't just a gang—they run protection on half the Joyhouses in Kabuki. Somebody hits them this hard and no one knows who? That makes everyone nervous. Fuckin' paper works gonna break me..."

River nodded slowly, dark eyes still on the bloodied pavement. "Then we find him."

Han scoffed. "You gonna drag a ghost into court?"

River finally turned toward her. "No. But if he's real—and I think he is—then he's just starting. You don't go this deep into a fight and stop at one bar."

Han leaned back against the precinct car, arms crossed. "So what now?"

River sighed. "We keep our ears open. And hope he leaves a footprint next time."

Han looked down at the crime scene and murmured, "Let's just hope it's not ours."

---

The neon glow of the Afterlife pulsed like a heartbeat.

Inside the iconic club's smoky haze, the usual crowd—gigs, mercs, fixers, and netrunners—buzzed with uneasy energy. News travelled fast in Night City, and the massacre at Lizzie's Bar was already reshaping the underworld's landscape.

Rogue, the club's unofficial queen and a legend in her own right, leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of whiskey.

Her eyes scanned the faces around her, each silently digesting the ramifications. The usual smirks and casual bravado were replaced by grim expressions and whispered conversations.

"That was no gang fight," she muttered to herself. "That was a message. And it wasn't just for the Tyger Claws."

Her friend and longtime fixer, Regina Jones, approached, her sharp gaze meeting Rogue's. "Word is it was one solo. One. And that solo left nineteen Tyger Claws in body bags. With just a knife, a gun, and some fancy moves."

Rogue's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like someone's trying to rewrite the rules. That kinda power doesn't come cheap. Whoever they are, they're not here for scraps."

Regina nodded, lowering her voice. "Padre's been talking. He's calling him El Silenciador—The Silencer. Even Padre's surprised by the skill. Said the guy's got reflexes and tactics no street solo has."

A netrunner at the nearby table overheard and leaned in. "That name's gonna spread fast. Everybody hates Tyger Claws, but nineteen dead? That's a goddamn war crime in street code. Someone's gonna want revenge."

Another solo scoffed. "Revenge won't come easy. Whoever this Silencer is? He's got brains too. Heard he took out the ventilation system and rigged mines around the exits. That's not your average ganger."

Rogue took a slow sip, the amber liquid warming her throat. "Lizzie's bar was already a powder keg. This? It's the spark."

Regina added, "And the Mox? They're rallying. Lizzie's got a reputation for protecting her people, and this attack? It's just fuel. Expect more solos looking for work there. More eyes watching the claws."

The club's DJ cut the music for a moment, a subtle nod to the gravity of the moment. Even in a place built on escapism, the weight of reality pressed down.

Rogue glanced toward the VIP booth where Lizzie herself was nursing a wound but holding strong. "She survived the initial attack, and with the kills of those four hired solos… I'm betting she called in a favour."

Regina's lips twitched in a rare smile. "Yeah. And lucky for her, the guy who fixed their AV system? The one who saw her cut down those claws? He's on her side."

"Victor Von Doom," Rogue repeated, tasting the name. "Sounds like a nightmare. And a promise."

A crowd of mercs nearby discussed the implications, some wary, others eager.

One grizzled solo muttered, "If that guy shows up, you want him on your side. If not? You're dead."

"Padre's already warning fixers," Regina said. "Payment offers are up for anyone who can get close or learn more. But no one knows who he really is. No SIN. No ID. Just a mask and myth."

Rogue stood, her expression hardening. "Night City's about to change. The Tyger Claws are shaken, but they're nothing if not ruthless. They'll come back with fire. We'd better be ready."

The DJ dropped the beat back in, and the crowd dispersed into their usual revelry. But beneath the surface, the underworld was buzzing with rumours and fear.

Some whispered that El Silenciador was a ghost from a past nobody wanted to remember. Others said he was a new breed—half myth, half machine, and all danger.

Rogue watched Lizzie from across the room, admiring her resolve. "Lizzie's made her stand, but the war's just begun."

And in the shadows, unseen but felt, the city held its breath.

Night City's underworld was a labyrinth of whispered threats, shifting alliances, and simmering grudges.

News of the massacre at Lizzie's Bar—nineteen Tyger Claws down in a single night—exploded like a shockwave through every gang's comms and hideouts. The carnage wasn't just brutal; it was unprecedented.

In a dimly lit backroom deep in Watson's Combat Zone, the Voodoo Boys' netrunners huddled around flickering holo-screens, their faces tight with disbelief.

"That many solos wiped out? No way this was a corpo hit," muttered one, fingers flying over the keys.

"Too clean. Too fast. Whoever did this? Professional, but not one of ours," another replied, eyes narrowing.

Outside the Combat Zone, the Maelstrom bikers in their grimy dens barked over static-ridden radios.

"Someone's sending a message," growled a grizzled rider, the scar along his jaw twitching. "Tyger Claws got too cocky, pushing into the slut's turf. Now they're paying for it."

But even the Maelstrom knew this was bigger than a turf spat.

"They're scared," whispered a younger member, eyes darting nervously. "That kinda firepower? It's not just another solo squad. It's… something else."

"Heh, shit's got me excited." A Veteran spoke sneeringly. 

"Don't be. More trouble is coming our way." Caliber spoke, her mood anything but sweet. 

In Little China, the Tyger Claws themselves were anything but silent. Their usual swagger was replaced by tension thick enough to choke on. In a cavernous warehouse lit by flickering red neon, their lieutenants paced, voice low but fierce.

"We lost nineteen good soldiers," snarled one. "The bar was a warning. We didn't just lose a fight—we lost face."

Another nodded grimly. "And now? We hunt. Whoever this 'Silencer' is, we burn 'em out."

Rumours spiralled, fed by paranoia and fear. The name "El Silenciador" passed from lips like a curse—half legend, half nightmare.

In the corporate enclaves, whisper networks buzzed with speculation. Mercenary groups debated if the silent killer was a rogue solo, an unleashed AI, or a ghost from the net.

But for the gangs, this was war.

The surrounding joytoys and sexworkers, still raw from the attack, rallied around Lizzie's vision. Her survival was a beacon. Within weeks, her bar transformed into a fortified refuge—a symbol of resistance for sex workers and outcasts. They sharpened their teeth, ready to claw back against those who threatened their turf.

At underground clubs and back-alley meetings, Mox leaders spread the word:

"This is our time. No more silence. No more fear."

Meanwhile, the Tyger Claws tightened their grip on their fractured factions, recruiting harder, striking quicker.

The city's underbelly pulsed with tension. Every shadow seemed a potential threat. Every stranger, an enemy in disguise.

And somewhere in the chaos, the legend of El Silenciador grew—an unseen force reshaping the deadly balance of power.