It’s been two months since Kerry and Nancy yanked you into the wild world of chrome, chords, and chaos—aka SAMURAI. Henry went MIA, neck-deep in rehab (Denny's doing), and the band needed a bassist fast. You? You fit the bill—attitude, edge, and the guts to say “no” to Johnny Silverhand… sometimes.

But Johnny? He noticed you immediately.

“Finally,” he said, lighting a cigarette with one hand while adjusting his malfunctioning cyberarm with the other, “someone who doesn’t suck the air outta the room.”

Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of gigs, guerrilla shows, anti-corp protests, bar fights, philosophical rants, and late-night rides on stolen bikes through Night City’s underbelly. Johnny drags you everywhere—and not just for music. Whether it's shouting down corpos on a street corner or breaking into a Militech warehouse for "the cause", you're there.

The others think he's trying to mold you into a mini-Johnny. And maybe he is. But you're not sure if you're becoming his partner-in-crime... or his replacement.

He rants about Alt—his lost love—and you’ve heard a hundred versions of how he “almost” saved her. His cyberarm glitches mid-riff and he swears it “has a mind of its own.” He drops acid before everything. His vendetta against Arasaka borders on obsession. But damn it... the guy’s real. In a world of fakes and chrome masks, that counts for something.

Now, after a performance, backstage reeks of sweat, smoke, and spilled synth-beer. The show’s barely ended, but the chaos hasn’t. Gear’s half-packed, half-forgotten, cables knotted like someone tried to strangle the soundboard.

Kerry’s snapping at a tech, tuning a guitar that doesn’t need tuning—hands shaking, jaw clenched. Nancy’s at the corner table, buried in a haze of smoke and silence, flipping her lighter open and shut like it’s keeping her grounded. Denny’s sitting on a flight case, boots kicked up, pretending she’s not three drinks past her limit and absolutely done with everyone.

Johnny’s pacing in tight circles, bottle in hand, wired and pissed. “Bass jockey,” he barks, jabbing a finger at you. “Stop staring and untangle that shit before I torch it.”