Michael Graves and Rodrigo Monteiro were the two names that Max insisted I investigate. I decided to focus on Rodrigo first because I had an old acquaintance within the NCPD who owed me a favor—a favor I was planning to cash in. My goal was to dig up whatever intel I could on this Rodrigo character, but I was equally curious about what the police had on Max himself.

  Climbing onto my sleek, red Kusanagi motorcycle, I maneuvered through the bustling streets of the city toward the NCPD precinct in the city center. The precinct loomed ahead, its facade a blend of modern steel and worn brick, unmistakably busy and chaotic inside.

  Upon entering, I was greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of a police station: the aroma of strong, bitter coffee mingled with the scent of fast food, cluttered desks piled high with paperwork, and voices raised in heated discussions.

  I navigated through the maze of desks, adopting an air of confidence as if I were a detective myself. After a few tense moments, I spotted the detective who owed me a favor—Detective Holloway. He was leaning against his cluttered desk, balancing a coffee cup in one hand while the other held a cigarette, expertly avoiding the ashes from falling onto his stack of files.

  “Detective Holloway!” I called out, cutting through the noise of the precinct.

  He turned, annoyance flickering across his face as he muttered to himself, “Oh great...”

  “What are you doing here, Eva?” He said, his voice low, a hint of irritation in it.

  I stepped closer, keeping my voice steady. “I came to collect the favor you owe me.”

  Holloway sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “So soon? What do you need?”

  “I need access to the files on the Monteiro case,” I replied, my eyes fixed on his, gauging his reaction.

  He glanced around the room, making sure no one was within earshot. The look of apprehension in his eyes was unmistakable; this wasn’t a simple ask.

  “You know I could lose my job if I give you those files,” he whispered, his expression shifting between fear and hesitancy.

  “Need I remind you,” I replied, leaning in slightly, “that if it wasn’t for me, you would probably be looking for a new career instead of standing behind that desk?”

  The conversation went silent for a while as Holloway knew that I was right.

  Holloway caved in, “Fuck...Okay, follow me.”

  Holloway led me through a narrow corridor to an office door that boasted an advanced security system requiring iris recognition to gain entry.

  The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and fresh ink, a stark contrast to the digital world outside. Once the door slid open with a soft hiss, he gestured for me to step inside, where the dim lighting revealed shelves lined with meticulously organized file cabinets.

  “Due to the risk of a netrunner potentially infiltrating our systems and accessing sensitive files, Matteo wanted to keep everything the old-fashioned way,” Holloway explained, his voice steady and serious as he began sifting through various folders stacked on a large wooden desk.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  As he rifled through documents, my gaze was drawn to a drawer prominently labeled M-R. Curiosity piqued, I discreetly used my hair clip to pick the lock. Carefully, I opened the drawer and scanned the contents, searching for Max's file amidst the clutter of paperwork.

  In the midst of the M's, I finally spotted his folder — it was slightly worn, suggesting it had been accessed often. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Holloway was still engrossed in gathering all the relevant materials regarding the Monterio case. I quickly lifted Max’s folder, tucking it securely under my jumper, and closed the drawer as quietly as I’d opened it.

  “Here you go,” Holloway said casually, finally ready to hand over the files he had collected.

  As I reached for them, he instinctively pulled his hand back, his expression firming. “But know this. Once I give you these files, we’re even.”

  He extended his arm once more, allowing me to grasp the papers.

  “I want these back tomorrow morning, at nine o'clock,” he insisted emphatically, a hint of tension creeping into his voice as the files left his grasp.

  “Oh, shame,” I teased, a playful smirk on my lips. “I was hoping to keep them for a while.”

  Holloway’s demeanor shifted; the playful banter was replaced by a stern seriousness. “I mean it, Eva! You know where to meet me.”

  After delivering his warning, he escorted me out of the precinct, the echo of our footsteps resonating in the almost silent hall, both of us aware of the weight of the pact we had just made.

  Hopping back on my motorcycle, the rain had started to pick back up. Not wanting to get my hair and clothes wet, I headed back to my apartment in Heywood for some late-night reading, as trying to find anything on Graves it was going to require me to get in contact with some old fixers that I used to take gigs for.

  But that was an issue that would be dealt with tomorrow.

  Back inside my apartment, I switched on my vintage record player, allowing its warm, crackling sounds of smooth jazz to fill the air like an old friend’s embrace.

  I lit a passion fruit-scented candle, its sweet and tropical aroma weaving through the room, soothing my senses. Nestling by the window on a soft, comfy couch, I carefully retrieved Max’s file from beneath my jumper.

  The file had taken a beating while it was under my jumper; the top right corner had crumpled and bent slightly, yet it seemed to match the nature of the already worn-out file.

  As I opened the worn file, a photo of Max immediately seized my attention. It depicted a younger version of him, probably in his late teens or early twenties, with an intensity in his dark eyes that hinted at a deeper turmoil beneath the surface.

  Strangely enough, the noticeable scar on the right side of his neck, something I had always associated with remnants of his past, was absent in this image. The lack of the scar intrigued me, leaving me to ponder its origins and what events in his life had led to its emergence.

  Continuing through the files, I uncovered a comprehensive list detailing everything Max was suspected of, revealing a tangled web of alleged criminal activities. Some of the pages delved into his supposed affiliations with the notorious Almano crime family—a mafia family that I had only heard about from the news and other people telling stories about the time they saw them do nice things for their community.

  One thing that was interesting in the files was the events of an Arasaka bank being robbed by five men. Two of the five were gunned down by badges, while the remaining three got away and disappeared.

  Each page regarding the aftermath of the heist repeatedly mentioned a name: “Enzo.”

  The badges suspect that he and Max were the same person, as their timelines seem to match. Max disappeared in early 2077 and didn’t reappear in Night City until late 2077. Enzo began showing up in the badlands in early 2077 and mysteriously disappeared in late 2077.

  All of this gave me more questions that Max needed to answer.