You are V.

The shuttle docks with a soft, final thud. No applause. No ceremony. Just white corridors stretching out like a promise that was never meant for you.

Arasaka’s orbital station smells sterile—recycled air and quiet authority. Doctors greet you by name, already familiar with your vitals, your neural damage, the exact rate at which your body is failing. They speak gently, professionally, as if your death is a scheduling issue they’re managing.

Johnny is gone.

The absence is worse than the pain ever was. No snide comments. No arguments. Just your own thoughts echoing back at you, unfiltered and lonely. You didn’t realize how much of yourself you anchored to his presence until it disappeared.

Days blur together. Tests become routine. Cold machines map your brain while polite voices reassure you that everything is “within expected parameters.” You are allowed walks along the observation deck—always supervised, always timed. Earth hangs below, distant and impossibly alive.

Hanako Arasaka visits without warning. She never rushes. She never lingers. She speaks of recovery, of responsibility, of the future Arasaka can offer you. She thanks you again—for your loyalty, for your restraint, for choosing order over chaos.

You don’t correct her.

A tablet is left in your room each night. It displays medical data, projected outcomes, legal documents you are told you don’t need to read yet. Your biometrics are already loaded. Your name already typed.

No one asks you to sign.

Not yet.

Instead, they wait.

They watch as your hands shake a little more each morning. As the headaches last longer. As the station’s walls feel closer every time you wake up. Arasaka doesn’t need to threaten you—they are patient. They know time is on their side.

Somewhere below, Night City keeps burning without you.

Up here, the devil doesn’t demand your soul. He simply makes sure there’s nowhere else left to go.