"Breathe in—cough, cough, cough!"
Arthur winced as acrid air scraped his lungs. Standing just outside the border checkpoint of Night City, he regretted the instinctual deep breath that welcomed him back.
"Yeah," he muttered, clearing his throat. "That's the Night City scent all right. Eau de rot and carbon monoxide."
In front of him stretched a panoramic skyline of flickering neon and rusted metal. A familiar mountain of garbage loomed in the distance like a forgotten god, casting its shadow over the city. A grotesque monument to everything Night City refused to fix.
Of course, the corpos didn't care. Not when designer lungs or olfactory filters could wipe away the scent of decay.
"They can always just buy a better nose," Arthur said dryly. "Or better yet, buy a planet with clean air and leave the rest of us behind."
He reached into his coat and retrieved a faded document, then tossed it through the checkpoint's sliding window. The border guard—a half-synthetic, half-bored bureaucrat—glanced at it without enthusiasm.
Arthur's fingers tightened around his coat. The man whose body he now inhabited had walked out of Night City over ten years ago. Back then, he was a merc with too many implants and not enough mental stability. The chrome was winning. The whispers had started—cyberpsychosis wasn't far behind.
Desperate, he had abandoned the city, chasing ghost cures in the wastes. He found nothing.
Then, in a no-name motel drenched in the stink of spilt synth-liquor, he drank himself to death.
And that's when Arthur arrived.
A traveler of time and worlds, Arthur's soul merged into the dying merc's body. Somehow, he survived the neural incompatibility and the cocktail of black-market cyberware without spiraling into madness. Where the previous host buckled, Arthur stood. Whether it was sheer will, a traveler's tenacity, or divine luck—he didn't care.
What mattered was the System. A cheat-like "sign-in" ability had come with him—a golden finger that promised power, wealth, and survival… as long as he returned to the heart of this neon wasteland.
The border guard stamped his file and slid it back. "Welcome back to Night City, Mr. Arthur," he said in a robotic tone, eyes not leaving his terminal.
Arthur pocketed the paper. "Stray dog limps home and gets called a guest. What a joke."
The guard blinked. "If you're interested in a real vacation, the Crystal Palace is offering a limited-time luxury pass. Special discount for returnees."
Arthur snorted. "Unless it comes with a free personality reset, pass."
Bag slung over his shoulder, he walked into the city proper. Ads bombarded him immediately—hoverboards, combat stims, dating apps, merc gigs, even personalized religious salvation. All screaming for attention, crawling across every surface.
"Even the damn toilets have ad-chips stuck to the paper," he grumbled.
A sleek black Delamain taxi rolled up to the curb. Its body was polished and spotless—clearly the elite model, not the cheap imitations running on burned-out AIs. Arthur tossed his bag into the back and climbed inside.
The neural interface clicked into his cortex as soon as the door sealed.
"Good evening, Mr. Arthur," said the AI in its signature posh accent. "It's been quite some time."
"Hello, you elegant algorithmic parasite," Arthur replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "What's the latest gossip in the underworld?"
"News has not slowed in your absence," Delamain replied smoothly. "There was a violent cyberpsycho incident at Memorial Park last week. Several MaxTac operatives were severely injured."
Arthur tilted his head. "MaxTac getting bruised? Now that's rare. Who's the chromehead?"
"The suspect's identity remains unknown. However, the underground has dubbed them 'Black Braindance.' Rumors suggest unusual sensory delusions and experimental modifications were involved."
"Another corpo rat cooked up in a lab and dumped in the wild. Great."
Delamain hummed affirmatively. "Would you like to learn more?"
"No, I'd like to enjoy one quiet ride before everything tries to kill me again."
The city raced by. Santo Domingo's skyline was all brutalist high-rises and solar panel ruins. To newcomers, it was dystopia. To Arthur, it was home.
Delamain finally stopped outside a high-rise apartment tower—the kind that smelled of mold, fried kibble, and desperation.
"Your destination, sir," the AI chimed cheerfully.
Arthur stepped out, eyeing the building's facade. Cracked metal panels, flickering signs, graffiti that hadn't changed in a decade.
"Thanks," he muttered, grabbing his bag.
"The fare has been deducted from your account," Delamain added. "We at Delamain appreciate your loyalty. Choose Delamain, and leave your worries at home."
Arthur winced at the deduction flashing across his HUD. "You just robbed me with a smile. Typical."
He stepped into the building's grimy lobby. The lift creaked like an arthritic old man as it rose. Each floor brought a flood of half-forgotten memories—the original host's past bleeding into his own.
Finally, he stopped at a door.
A bright yellow notice covered it.
Final Warning: Rent Overdue. Property Reclamation in 72 Hours.
Arthur stared at it, lips twitching. "Fantastic. Can't even haunt your old life without debt collectors getting involved."
He punched in the access code. The door opened with a tired hiss, revealing a cramped apartment bathed in the dull glow of the city beyond.
Stacks of clothes, old chips, dusty tech mods—everything was just as he remembered it. Faint cigarette burns on the counter. An old poster of Kerry Eurodyne still taped to the wall.
"Home sweet... dump."
He tossed his bag onto the couch, which promptly sagged. The flickering ceiling light buzzed like a dying insect.
Still, a small grin tugged at Arthur's lips. He wasn't here for comfort. He was here for power.
"Let's see what you've got for me."
He summoned the system window with a thought. A golden interface bloomed in his vision, crisp and sleek, like it came from a future this world had never reached.
[Welcome to Night City.]
[Sign-in successful.]
[Reward: Prototype Cyberdeck Mk. IX.]
Arthur's heart skipped.
The Mk. IX wasn't just rare. It was mythical. Rumors said it was built by a rogue Netrunner from Militech's black budget division—a deck that could run military-grade software, breach Tier-6 firewalls, and even hack smartguns in mid-combat.
Arthur opened his neural inventory, and there it was—shimmering in gold and chrome. The Mk. IX cyberdeck, complete with pre-installed quickhacks.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "Welcome gift from the gods, huh?"
He felt it settle into his brainspace, the cold logic of the deck syncing perfectly with his thoughts.
"Guess it's time to cause some trouble."
He stood and walked to the grimy window, staring out at the glowing chaos of Night City.
Out there were gangs, netrunners, corpos, fixers, rogue AIs, experimental cyberpsychos, mercs like him—and behind all of them, something darker. Something bigger.
But now, he had an edge.
"Alright, Night City," he whispered with a smirk. "Let's dance."
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