Arthur twisted the throttle of the motorcycle Mitch had loaned him and roared off toward Night City, the Badlands dust kicking up behind him in a long plume. Compared to bulky four-wheeled vehicles, motorcycles felt like freedom incarnate—nimble, fast, and capable of weaving through even the tightest choke points of the urban jungle. It was the perfect choice for someone like him who thrived on speed, reaction, and chaos.
As the wind tore past his ears, Arthur's phone buzzed in his jacket. He swiped the call onto his visor display, and a familiar voice crackled to life.
"Well done, Arthur. You're still a treasure. The money will be transferred to your account immediately. You're happy, I'm happy, and the client's happy. A classic win-win-win."
Arthur scoffed. "Happy? I wouldn't go that far. That mission dug deeper than expected. If there's a next time, you might want to ease up on the surprise twists."
He didn't fully understand what Thor intended to do with the stolen data, and honestly, he didn't care. Arthur had learned that in Night City, every layer you peeled back only revealed more rot. Jobs that looked clean on the surface were almost always steeped in corps politics, betrayals, and red flags waving like parade banners.
"We delayed Military Tech's involvement for now, but that just means biotech will come knocking next," he muttered. "That's how the food chain works around here—one predator down, another ready to bite."
"I'm just the middleman, Arthur," came Qwen's voice, breezy and detached on the other end.
Arthur smirked bitterly. That was Night City's favorite excuse. Everyone was "just" the middleman. But in a city where information could kill, even the courier was stained with blood.
"Alright, Qwen. You mentioned cooperation before. You want something? Spit it out."
Qwen didn't skip a beat. "I want to sell something through your channels. You remember I had cyberpsychosis once, right? I've been researching since then. Managed to develop a suppressor—not like yours. Mine's a single-use cure. Plug it in once, and you're good for life. Simple. Elegant. Affordable. I'm doing the people a favor."
Arthur raised a brow, eyes narrowing as he weaved past a collapsed billboard on the highway.
"You might want to ask the people you sliced up if they think you're doing anyone a favor. But hey, if your product works and won't explode anyone's brain, sure—I'll help sell it. But I'm charging a five percent handling fee."
"Five? You greedy bastard!" Qwen barked. "I'm one of your guys! We're in this for Night City!"
Arthur snorted. "And I'm not the mayor. I don't run this place for charity. Business is business, and you know that better than anyone."
There was a long pause. Arthur could practically hear Qwen fuming on the other end.
"Fine. I'll raise the selling price from twenty to twenty-five percent. You get your cut, I get mine. Who else would I trust but you, eh?"
Typical Night City negotiation. Everyone tried to spin lies into loyalty. But Arthur let it pass. The call ended, and the city skyline finally loomed before him—dark towers glowing with corporate neon, like lighthouses guiding lost souls to their doom.
By the time he rolled into Night City, dusk had descended. The sky, once a muted orange, had faded into bruised purples and sickly yellows. Dirty sunlight trickled through the thick skyline, filtering over trash-strewn alleys and empty storefronts. It looked peaceful—but in Night City, peace was always a warning, not a blessing.
The streets were eerily quiet. Homeless clusters huddled near steam vents, staring blankly with eyes that had stopped hoping years ago. Tattooed gang members prowled in the shadows, ever-watchful, always twitchy. Occasionally, a sleek, polished corpo supercar would tear past, its roar echoing like thunder in a dead sky.
People came here seeking salvation—fame, fortune, reinvention. They thought Night City was where dreams happened. They believed they could become someone. Maybe they could be rich. Maybe they'd fall in love. Maybe they'd climb so high that they'd never fall.
They were all wrong.
Arthur had seen it all. Night City was no dream machine. It was a grinder, and people were the meat. The rich ruled from above in golden towers, their fingers pulling strings no one else could see. They got their paradise—but only because everyone else lived in hell.
For the average soul, Night City wasn't about living. It was about surviving. You were data. A profile. A wallet. A body. If you didn't fit in the system, you were erased.
Dreams here were dangerous things. They lured you in, made you believe, then chewed you up and spit you back out as another corpse in the alley. Everyone thought they were different—destined for greatness. But the system was built to crush you unless you figured out how to cheat it first.
Arthur pulled up to a plaza and parked the motorcycle. He removed the key and slipped it into his coat, then stepped off, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of his thumb.
The smoke curled lazily into the dusk air as he made his way into a nearby building. The elevator was old, its screen flickering. As the doors closed behind him, the ancient monitor sputtered to life with a segment from News Channel 54.
"Night City continues to thrive with the highest employment rates in the last decade! Thanks to breakthrough policies and the booming tech sector…"
Arthur scoffed. It was laughable—so laughable it hurt. Whoever wrote this garbage had never walked past a food line. They were too busy churning out propaganda while the streets rotted from the inside out.
If those broadcasters ever spent a day in the gutters, they'd eat their microphones. But no—they stayed in their glass towers, looking down through virtual feeds, telling people everything was fine.
The elevator groaned as it climbed. Arthur stared at his reflection in the stained chrome. This place made monsters. Turned people into wolves. Yet here he was—still in the game, still grinding, still standing.
He wasn't a saint. He wasn't a savior.
But he was a survivor. And in Night City, that counted for everything.
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