"Welcome to Los Angeles, Team KK." In a deserted town near the outskirts of Los Angeles—the largest city in Southern California—Karl met the

"Welcome to Los Angeles, Team KK."

In a deserted town near the outskirts of Los Angeles—the largest city in Southern California—Karl met the contact who had messaged him earlier to welcome them.

Calling him a "contact" might be a stretch. According to the mission briefing, this individual was only responsible for handing over some necessary information. After that, he would leave. The entire mission, from obtaining the document to bringing it back, was KK Team's responsibility.

"That disguise is impressive."

Karl closely observed their contact and had to admit—his appearance was extremely deceptive.

Judging by looks alone, the contact appeared to be a teenage male around 1.6 meters tall, wearing a dusty, grayish cap that covered a mop of messy blond hair. He was so scrawny he could barely fill out his clothes. His freckled, youthful face made it easy to mistake him for an average Badlands teenager at first glance.

With that combination of youth and regional characteristics, he blended in easily—an ideal disguise.

The blond teenager didn't respond to Karl's compliment, as if it was expected. After checking the surrounding area to confirm there were no approaching shadows in the wasteland beyond the ruined town, he handed something to Karl. Before Karl could say anything, the contact turned and walked away.

"I'll leave the rest to you. Don't let your team's reputation go to waste."

Leaving those parting words, he pulled his cap down low and quickly disappeared into the distance. Moments later, the sound of a motorbike echoed through the town. When Karl and the others looked up again, their contact was already speeding across the Badlands on an unremarkable vehicle.

"I don't recognize that bike model," said V, watching the retreating figure.

"But judging from the build, it's cobbled together from parts of at least four different well-known rugged models. Probably built from scrap. Can't be traced to a source."

As a former nomad, V gave his teammates a quick rundown.

"He's not just anonymous—his vehicle is, too. Professionally trained, at least when it comes to disguise. A qualified drifter if nothing else."

"Could he be an agent? A spy?" Oliver stroked his thin goatee thoughtfully.

"I've heard of the United States Central Intelligence Bureau. They lead domestic intelligence in New America. Handle investigations, undercover work, enforcement... We might've just run into one."

"Whether he is or isn't, it's probably not something our client wants us looking into," Karl said as he examined the item the contact had given him.

It was a tattered notebook wrapped in old, frayed cloth. With just a bit of force, Karl easily ripped off the covering and flipped it open. The pages were yellowed and aged but filled with handwritten information.

Skimming quickly, Karl realized it was an intelligence brief on the current situation in Los Angeles.

After the United States fractured and city-states went independent, Los Angeles—once America's second-largest city and the biggest on the West Coast—fell out of federal control. What followed was chaos.

Known as the "City of Angels," LA had been a hub of commerce, industry, and international trade. But with economic collapse came inflation and mass unemployment. This led to rampant looting and social unrest. The LAPD, once the city's main source of order, responded with overwhelming force—fueling widespread resentment and triggering the Second Los Angeles Riots (the first occurred in 1992).

The chaos that followed was catastrophic: looting, arson, murder. Courts were paralyzed. Violent officers were never brought to justice, and the lawlessness only escalated.

Millions joined the riotous frenzy, venting their rage indiscriminately. On the very first day, injuries and fatalities surpassed those of the first LA riots by thousands. And this time, there were no National Guard or Marines to intervene—even the police were overwhelmed.

No one knows the true death toll of the riots, but one thing is clear: LA fell hard. Once the crown jewel of the West, it was now a shattered remnant of its former self.

Economic collapse, abandoned infrastructure, and mass exodus hollowed the city out. Meanwhile, Night City rose to take its place—becoming the new capital of the West Coast, the glimmering "City of Dreams."

LA and Night City were like brothers—mirroring one another. But while Night City thrived, LA never recovered, even after submitting to New America and officially rejoining the federation. That humiliation bred resentment.

"In this city, don't let it slip that you're from Night City," Karl read aloud from the notebook.

"Locals will treat you with open hostility. They hate Night Citizens and envy the luxury and freedom they still enjoy."

Reading this, Jack and Oliver—both Night City natives—visibly grimaced.

"Envy the luxury of Night City?" Jack muttered.

"What kind of niche take is that?" Oliver said with a weird look.

"Night City's a goddamn mess. What's there to envy?"

"Don't get ahead of yourselves. There's more," Karl said, flipping the page.

The second page was almost blank—just two short lines:

"Seven Bars in the City."

"Password: 'Versatile. Free.' Use it with a bartender to access local intel."

"Well, looks like we got more than just background—some hot leads too," Karl said.

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