"Mr. Arthur," Delamain's voice chimed smoothly from the front of the vehicle, "the so-called 'wild dog of Night City' is far more than a common street rogue."
Arthur grinned and flicked ash from his cigarette. "The name's a ghost. I'm not a god—just someone who got too good at not dying."
In the backseat, David watched him with quiet intensity. Arthur—his supposed father—was a contradiction. On one hand, he seemed like an average man wearing an old coat and a cynical smirk. On the other, he moved like a predator and talked like someone who'd seen a dozen deaths too many.
David didn't know what to make of him yet.
The original owner of Arthur's body had lived fast and recklessly, leaving behind broken enemies and unfulfilled debts. A merc with a kill streak so clean even fixers whispered his name with caution. But in Night City, fame didn't mean safety. It just meant someone bigger would eventually take a shot.
If Arthur hadn't hijacked this dying husk of a man, that fate would've already come to pass.
Now, he was rewriting that destiny—starting here.
As the cab rolled past Misty's closed storefront, Arthur didn't even glance toward the familiar signage. Misty was long gone for the night, and Arthur wasn't in the mood for sentiment.
He motioned to David. "C'mon. This way."
They circled the back alley and approached the wire-mesh door to Victor's clinic. It was locked tight.
Arthur cracked his knuckles, grabbed the padlock, and with a squeeze of his cybernetic hand, crumpled it like tin foil. The broken lock clattered to the ground. He pushed the door open and stepped through.
David's eyes widened, reflecting the flickering red-blue light inside. "Whoa…"
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "Don't get too excited. Over seventy percent of my body's chrome. That's why the original owner started spiraling into cyberpsychosis."
David blinked. "Wait, really?"
Arthur led him through the dim hallway, explaining as they walked.
"Being a cyberpunk isn't just wearing chrome and acting tough. It's a loop. You take dangerous jobs, make money, buy better mods—then take more dangerous jobs. Eventually, you reach the edge. Your hands shake. Your emotions fry. The meds stop working."
He tapped the side of his temple.
"And then the crash comes. You lose control. You lose yourself. That's what happened to the man I replaced."
David swallowed hard. The glamor of mercenary life had started to crack.
Arthur kicked aside a broken med-drone as they entered Victor's clinic.
Inside, the sounds of combat echoed from an old holoscreen—an underground boxing match. Victor sat in the corner, hunched over, sipping lukewarm coffee, eyes glued to the screen.
Without turning, he said, "People who show up at this hour aren't exactly saints. You looking for implants or trouble?"
Arthur chuckled. "A little of both. I'm here to exploit you."
Victor froze.
Slowly, he turned, and when he saw Arthur's face, his jaw nearly dropped. Then a grin stretched across his worn features.
"Arthur? You bastard! I thought the sands swallowed you! But look at you—still walking, and not bleeding out. Found yourself a miracle cure?"
Arthur motioned to the woman in his arms—unconscious, bruised, pale.
"My wife, Gloria. Hit by a car. And that kid over there, that's David. My son."
Victor's smile faded. He stepped forward, all humor gone.
"Set her down," he said quickly, switching into medic mode. He wheeled over a scanner, connected wires to her neural interface, and pulled up her vitals. His face darkened.
"Scavenger work?"
Arthur nodded. "She was at the Night City Rehabilitation Center. If we hadn't gotten her out, they'd have ripped her apart for parts."
Victor growled under his breath. "Sick bastards. They've been cutting deals with black market traffickers for months now."
Arthur glanced over at David, who stood awkwardly in the corner, trying to shrink into the walls.
"He put her there," Arthur muttered. "Didn't know what that place was. Thought it was just a hospital."
He reached over and smacked David lightly on the back of the head. The boy winced, guilt etched on his face.
Victor sighed. "Don't be too hard on him. Gloria... she cut ties with me after you left. Wanted David out of the merc world. She was trying to protect him."
Arthur nodded. "Yeah. And now she's broken, and this city's still chewing."
Victor finished his scan and leaned back in his chair.
"She's got cracked ribs, a collapsed lung, fractured femur—nothing fatal, but it's serious. She'll need cybernetic replacement parts and plenty of rehab."
Arthur crossed his arms, thinking. "Use my account. No corpo leftovers. Give her top-grade civilian parts—new. I want her fixed like she was never touched."
Victor gave a short nod. "Got it. I'll treat her like family."
---
As Victor worked, Arthur leaned against the wall, watching quietly. David hovered nearby, staring at his mother, his hands clenched.
"This… is what it's like?" he asked.
Arthur looked over. "What's what like?"
"Being a cyberpunk. Living like this."
Arthur took a long drag from his cigarette before answering.
"People think it's cool. Guns, chrome, gigs, cred. But this life? It's a meat grinder. We're tools—shiny on the outside, hollow on the inside. Used by corpos, fixers, ganglords. When we break, they toss us out."
David stayed quiet.
Arthur's eyes softened just a little.
"You don't have to follow this road, kid. You still have a choice."
David didn't reply. But his silence wasn't hesitation—it was thinking. Deep thinking.
---
An hour later, Victor finished patching up Gloria for the night.
"She's stable. Sedated. She'll sleep till morning. I'll need a few days to do the full install—get the replacement parts in, patch her systems. But she'll pull through."
Arthur nodded, placing a hand on Victor's shoulder. "Thanks, old friend."
Victor smirked. "You owe me. Again."
Arthur laughed. "Put it on my tab."
As they got ready to leave, Arthur motioned to David, who hadn't said much the whole time. He looked at the boy for a long second—really looked at him.
David's eyes had changed. The innocence was still there, but so was something else.
Determination.
"Come on, kid," Arthur said, ruffling his hair. "Let's crash. Tomorrow's going to be chaos."
David followed him toward the exit, glancing one last time at his mother. For the first time in days, her breathing was calm. Controlled.
And behind her, a man neither stranger nor savior—his father—walked ahead, casting a long, heavy shadow.
---
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