Arthur stood in front of the door for a long while, one hand resting against the frame. His thoughts spun like a faulty gyro. He'd known the original owner of this body had once lived here, had a family here… but time in Night City had a way of grinding all things to dust.
Then, a spark of realization struck him.
"Of course," he muttered, snapping his fingers.
Over a decade had passed. There was no guarantee that the people inside this apartment were the wife and child of the man whose life he'd inherited. In fact, given the attrition rate in Night City, they were probably long gone. Moved. Dead. Or worse.
He exhaled deeply, as if casting away lingering guilt. "They're probably not here anymore," he reassured himself. "And if they are, well... I'll deal with it."
He stepped closer, but before he could press the panel, a notification flickered across his retinal interface.
[Rent overdue. Would you like to pay now? Y/N]
Arthur's expression twitched. "Damn parasites don't miss a beat."
With a sigh, he mentally selected "Yes." A moment later, his account balance dipped, and the lock let out a soft click. The door slid open with the mechanical grace of a worn-down vending machine.
The interior was unexpectedly warm, alive. Clothes were strewn across the back of a battered couch. Styrofoam boxes of pre-packed synth-food littered the coffee table. On the wall-mounted radio, a local station played static-laced news: something about another blackout in Watson and gang violence flaring in Pacifica.
Arthur stepped inside and helped himself to a half-finished bottle of sparkling water on the table. He twisted off the cap, took a swig, and dropped into the couch with a tired grunt.
"System," he called out mentally.
A moment of silence—then a pleasant ding echoed in his mind.
[Ding! Sign-in successful.]
[Reward: Suppressor Chip Manufacturing Blueprint obtained.]
Suddenly, knowledge rushed into his mind—schematics, crafting patterns, component breakdowns. It wasn't natural. But it slotted into place as if it had always been his.
Arthur rubbed his temple. The suppressor chip wasn't just advanced tech—it was revolutionary. Unlike common inhibitors, which required constant reapplication and consumption, this was a cybernetic implant that actively tricked the body's immune and neural systems into accepting foreign augmentations. No more injections. No more side effects. No more corpo addiction cycles.
Arthur scowled. "Something this clean, this efficient... no wonder the corps buried it."
He already saw the game: pharma giants would never allow mass production of a chip that could kill their billion-dollar inhibitor market. It wasn't a glitch—it was deliberate suppression. Greed dressed up in profit sheets and quarterly gains.
Just as he was about to light a cigarette, a thud echoed from the ventilation shaft.
Arthur's hand flashed to his waist. The pistol cleared its holster in one fluid motion. He aimed at the vent instinctively.
Clank!
The cover popped off, and a young boy tumbled out, landing with a grunt. His school uniform was stained and torn, a bandage wrapped haphazardly around his forehead. He dropped a black plastic bag onto the floor with a dull thud.
Arthur blinked.
The boy looked familiar.
"David?" he muttered aloud, eyes narrowing.
The boy flinched at the sound of his name. "I—I'm just here to grab my stuff! I didn't know anyone was home!"
He raised his hands in surrender, wide-eyed and startled.
Arthur scanned the room again. The pieces fell into place like puzzle chips locking together. The decor, the bag, the worn uniform…
"This… is David Martinez's apartment?" he said under his breath. "That means... I'm…"
His eyes widened as the implication settled.
"I'm his father?"
David's brows furrowed. "Huh?"
A beat passed.
The kid's mind raced, arriving at the most plausible conclusion: This man was probably his mother's new boyfriend. After all, his real dad had died ages ago. That was the truth he'd lived with.
David straightened his back, attempting to sound mature. "My father is dead. I won't call anyone else by that title. If you're serious about my mom, that's your business, but I'll only call you 'Uncle.' Don't get any ideas."
Arthur blinked, and then burst into laughter.
"Well, you've got nerve, kid."
BANG!
A bullet struck the floor near David's foot. The impact echoed through the apartment like a thunderclap.
David jumped. "What the hell?!"
Arthur didn't even flinch. He leaned back on the couch, legs crossed, gun still in hand.
"Call me Daddy."
"…Are you serious?"
He leveled the pistol, eyes calm. "Deadly."
David's expression twisted in disbelief, but then he relented. "…Dad."
Arthur grinned. "That's better. See? Not so hard."
He stood, walked over, and gave David a firm pat on the shoulder. Then he handed him the pistol. It was a standard Unity model—worn but reliable.
David hesitated but took it. "Thanks," he said, tucking the weapon into his waistband.
It wasn't shiny or rare, but it was probably the first weapon someone had ever gifted him. In a city like this, that meant more than words.
Arthur lit a cigarette, letting the smoke trail toward the ceiling. "Where's your mom?"
David looked away, jaw tightening. "She's at the Night City Mental Rehabilitation Center. Car crash. It happened when she was picking me up from school. We didn't have insurance. Couldn't afford proper treatment."
Arthur already knew the story, but he needed to hear it from the kid himself. He exhaled slowly.
"You're a real filial son," he muttered sarcastically.
David scratched the back of his head. "I mean, I did what I could…"
Arthur rolled his eyes and flicked his finger at David's forehead. "That wasn't a compliment, dumbass."
He picked up the plastic bag David had dropped and tossed it onto the couch. Then, opening his own travel bag, he dumped its contents—clothes, ammo, and two long guns disguised beneath the fabric.
As David watched, wide-eyed, Arthur zipped the bag again and slung it over his shoulder.
"Listen up, kid."
David stood at attention instinctively.
"Night City eats the weak and chews up the rest for flavor. But I've been around the block. I've seen what's coming. You stick with me, you learn to survive. And maybe—maybe—we carve out a future worth living."
David glanced down at the pistol again, then nodded. "Okay."
Arthur's eyes gleamed. "Good."
As they both turned toward the door, Arthur glanced back one last time at the dimly lit apartment.
It wasn't much. Just cracked walls and old memories. But it was a start.
The world was shifting, and in Night City, that meant only one thing:
Play the game. Or be played.
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