In Night City, where even death could be rented by the hour, prosthetic technology was more common than bottled water. It had become such an everyday part of life that people joked steel factories could skip the mines and just recruit humans off the street—the steel content in their bodies now often outclassed natural iron ore.
Everyone had mods. Civilians, mercs, corpo wage slaves, even bartenders. Prosthetics came in all flavors: civilian or military grade, high-end custom jobs or cheap, off-the-rack garbage. But the strongest didn't always mean the best.
As the old saying went—too much chrome and you start rusting from the inside.
Cybernetics walked a thin line. Push past your limits and the price was your soul. The more invasive the upgrade, the more it gnawed at your sanity. For most people, simple civilian-grade tech was enough. Less rejection, fewer side effects. No need to live on suppressants. No need to teeter on the edge.
---
Arthur checked the balance flashing across his retinal HUD. His account numbers glowed a dull red.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, shame creeping in. "Vic… if the bill's too steep, I might need to owe you. Not trying to stiff you, but…"
He trailed off, guilt thick in his voice.
The years of merc work hadn't left much. Most of the money had gone into equipment upgrades, cyberdrugs, and overpriced meds. Whatever savings he had left wouldn't stretch far when dealing with premium prosthetics.
Victor shrugged, unfazed. His cybernetic eyes flickered as he began scanning inventory and placing orders. "Night City doesn't stop for anyone," he muttered. "Lucky for you, neither do I."
His fingers flew across the interface, logging requests and payments.
Arthur turned toward David, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and pointed at Victor. "Listen up, kid. If you ever get hurt—and you will—this guy's your ticket out of the grave. Doesn't matter if you're missing a head; Vic will bolt one back on and have you walking again."
David blinked, wide-eyed. "Seriously?"
Arthur smirked. "This guy's patched up half the underworld. He once fixed a boxer whose ribs were poking out of his chest. Hell, rumor says he even treated someone who survived a fight with Adam Smasher."
Victor grunted from behind the monitor. "That one's exaggerated."
Arthur ignored him. "I'm telling you, this man needs a damn statue. Or at least a banner—Saint Victor, Patron of Cyberpunks."
Victor rolled his eyes. "Keep talking like that, and I'll raise your bill by 30% for emotional damages."
Arthur flipped him off casually. "Screw you."
Victor smirked, rolled his chair to a nearby cabinet, and pulled out a dusty bottle of whiskey. He poured a small shot for himself and a larger one for Arthur.
"Not exactly medical protocol," he said, sliding the glass over. "But hell, old friends don't get old forever. Drink up—before your liver short-circuits."
Arthur raised his glass and clinked it against Victor's. The liquid burned its way down his throat, warm and sharp.
He glanced around the clinic—scuffed floors, buzzing lights, tools scattered everywhere. "You know this place hasn't changed in ten years?"
Victor shrugged. "And yet, I'm still in business."
Arthur leaned back, stretching his legs. "You should move to the city center. Open a luxury clinic. I'm talking marble floors, chrome pillars, maybe a rooftop pool with a smart bartender. Hell, throw in a British receptionist with a voice that makes you forget you're dying."
Victor barked a laugh. "Right. Then I'll charge 18,000 eddies for removing a splinter and triple that for a blood test. Sounds like a dream."
Arthur grinned. "That's the spirit. You'd be the richest man in Night City."
Victor shook his head, still chuckling. "You need therapy."
Arthur scratched his nose. "Probably. But this whiskey's cheaper."
---
The mood shifted.
Victor leaned back, his expression darkening slightly. "So… your cyberpsychosis. Is it really gone?"
Arthur's grin faded. He stared into the glass, swirling what little was left.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "The tremors stopped. The aggression. The blank spells. I didn't take anything. One day, it just… stopped."
Victor frowned, skeptical. "You're saying it just disappeared?"
Arthur shrugged. "Sounds stupid, right? Maybe I hit some freak neuro-balance. Or maybe the devil took pity on me."
Victor leaned forward, voice serious. "Arthur, cyberpsychosis doesn't go away. It's like falling into a black hole. Once you're in, there's no climbing out."
Arthur met his gaze. "And yet, here I am."
Victor studied him for a long moment, then looked away.
He'd heard rumors—legends, really—of rare cases where psychos walked back from the brink. Some said it was spiritual. Others swore by illegal neural rewrites, or drugs so potent they bordered on divine intervention.
But Arthur? He didn't seem touched by mysticism or science. He just was.
Of course, Victor didn't know the truth—that Arthur wasn't the original. That a traveler from another world now lived inside this shell.
And Arthur had no plans to tell him.
---
They sat in silence for a while, nursing their drinks. Outside, the neon glow of the city painted the windows in toxic shades of violet and green.
Arthur finally broke the quiet. "How do you do it, Vic? Keep this place running. Fixing up punks and psychos. Don't you ever get tired?"
Victor shrugged. "I did. Once. Then I realized I can't fix the city, but I can patch the people in it. That's enough for me."
Arthur nodded slowly, eyes heavy. "You're a good man."
Victor smirked. "Don't spread that rumor. I've got a reputation to keep."
---
The bottle was nearly empty when Victor stood up, stretching his arms. "Gloria's stable. I'll need a few days for the full workup—lung replacement, bone grafts, neuro-synchronization. But she'll walk out stronger than before."
Arthur exhaled a long breath of relief. "Thanks, Vic. Seriously."
Victor tapped his wrist with a smirk. "Add it to your tab."
Arthur turned to David, who had been watching the entire exchange like a documentary. The boy hadn't said much, but his eyes were processing every word, every motion.
"Let's roll, kid," Arthur said, ruffling his hair. "You look like you're about to collapse."
David didn't move immediately. He looked around the clinic again, as if trying to lock this moment in his memory.
"This world," he said softly, "is so different from everything I thought I knew."
Arthur looked back at him. "Yeah. Welcome to Night City."
And with that, the two walked back into the chrome-soaked night—one man half-made of steel and smoke, the other still finding out what kind of monster he might one day become.
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