The metallic clunk of the trunk unlocking echoed into the silence of death. M slowly lifted the lid, expecting perhaps another victim, maybe a dead girl, maybe just another name he'd never care to know.
But what he saw stopped him.
Stone-cold M. Unshakable M. Predator-of-the-night M.
Stopped. Dead. In. His. Tracks.
She lay curled in the narrow space like a wounded bird. Blood on her temple, wrists bruised from the binding, a deep gash above her eyebrow half-scabbed but still angry. Yet what took his breath away was not her condition.
It was her face.
Even bloodied, pale, and barely conscious—she looked exactly like her.
The one from his old life. From a world now gone, left behind after that one divine spin of the roulette.
He remembers he was sitting at home watching YouTube shorts . A real after reel and his last reel, it was an edit of an actress. He remembers rolling his eyes at the edit. At how men can easily loss control and turn simps in seconds, he remembers the comments, so unhinged he closed the app and decided to touch grass a little. That's why he was out when the accident happened. So to put it in simple terms he can say that he died and got reincarnated because of that YouTube reel . Because of her.
Sydney Sweeney.
And this girl? She could have been her twin.
Blonde hair matted with sweat and grime. Full lips dry but still pink. Eyes fluttering as if caught between sleep and nightmare.
He stared.
Then she stirred.
Her eyes blinked open, pupils constricted under the trunk light, face wincing at the sudden sting of consciousness. She saw him—imposing, tall, dressed in a suit worth more than the average Night City apartment—and her expression shifted to panic.
She thrashed, mumbling behind the gag, eyes wide.
M moved carefully. Calm. Non-threatening.
He reached in, untied the knot and slowly pulled the cloth from her mouth.
She gasped for air, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Please," she coughed, "Please don't hurt me—don't sell me, I didn't do anything—I just wanted to live here—I thought Night City was supposed to be different—please—"
"Stop," M said softly. His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. The kind of voice you don't argue with, even if it isn't yelling.
The girl flinched, but did stop. Her breath hitched.
He crouched beside the car, forearms resting on his knees.
"What's your name?"
"A–Ava," she whispered. "Ava Reade."
He nodded.
"Talk to me, Ava. What happened?"
She paused, still shaking. Then it spilled out.
She had come to Night City from out in the Free States. Bright-eyed. Naive. Thought she'd find opportunity, maybe a chance to act, or sing, or even just survive. She had dreams. She has nothing now.
The traffickers had gotten her in with a fake ID, promising paperwork, safe jobs. The moment she landed, she was on her own. No job. No creds. Just a hungry city that saw her as prey.
She slept in alleyways, lived off stolen kibble. The few times she tried asking for help, she was ignored—or nearly assaulted.
The NCPD? A joke. The moment she stepped into a precinct, they treated her like a junkie looking to waste their time.
And then, last night, the SCAVs got her.
They'd been watching her. Waiting for the right moment. She tried to fight. She remembered the injection. After that, nothing but nightmares and the sound of screaming—some of it hers, some of it not.
When she finished, she looked like someone deflated. Eyes downcast. Shoulders hunched.
"I don't wanna die here," she whispered.
M watched her. Silent.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"Can you cook?"
She blinked, stunned by the absurdity of the question.
"W-what?"
"I said," M repeated with a ghost of a smirk, "Can. You. Cook?"
She blinked again. "Yes… I—yeah. My mom taught me. I know real stuff. Not just… micro meals."
"Good." He stood. "You're hired."
"…What?"
"I'm taking you with me. You'll be my chef. Live-in. Room in the house. Full salary. Wardrobe. Medical care. You'll be safe."
A pause. A beat. Her lip trembled.
"…Why?"
M looked down at her, face unreadable.
"Because I'm hungry," he said. "And you look like someone I used to know."
He decided to take her in . Not out of lust nor pity, he helped her because she is a familiar sight in an unfamiliar place. She will be his anchor from now on so that he will never forget where he came from.
Two Hours Later – M's Mansion ....
The Caliburn whispered up the long marble drive under the north oak trees. Ava sat in the passenger seat, still in the oversized scav jacket M had thrown over her for modesty. She stared at everything like she was hallucinating.
When the mansion gates opened, she gasped audibly.
"You live here?" she whispered.
"I own it," M corrected, parking.
Inside, the smart system activated the lights, casting warm tones across elegant stone, glass, and blackwood décor. The soft scent of jasmine drifted from hidden vents.
He guided her to the guest wing—more luxury hotel suite than bedroom—and told her the wardrobe AI would assist with sizing and selection. The bathroom had a shower that could replicate rainfall from fifty countries.
"Clean up. Dress. Then meet me in the kitchen."
Later That Night ....
The kitchen hadn't seen use. M had bought it, admired it, and promptly ignored it.
Now Ava moved through it like she'd been born there. Hair still damp from the shower, wearing a loose gold-trimmed house tunic, barefoot and humming. She sautéed, stirred, and danced with the ingredients like a conductor with a symphony.
The smell alone made M pause as he entered. Real herbs. Real meat. Something spicy.
She looked up, grinning shyly.
"You don't have a favorite food, so I improvised."
He sat.
She plated.
And for the first time since arriving in Night City—
M ate a real, home-cooked meal.
....
Author note :
I had to rewrite this chapter five times until I was satisfied ... believe me you don't want to see the first take .. yuk .
Anyhow please tell me if you liked it or if you want somethings changed in it you have until I write the next three chapters and publish them. So approximately and hour or two .
Guys a comment will really help set my resolve on finishing this fic . So comment.