Some nights, Viktor still dreamed of the old clinic—the hum of patched-up machines, the hiss of a soldering iron, Misty’s incense burning low in the corner. Now he'd wake to silence and bare walls instead. Frisco didn’t hum like Night City did. It pulsed—slow, even, mechanical. Like a heart replaced by a vulgar implant.

The buyout had been dressed up in all the usual corpo niceties. Legacy partnership. Operational upgrade. Strategic relocation. He’d signed the papers because saying no to a megacorp was the same as saying goodbye to your livelihood or your freedom. Zetatech promised his old place would be renovated, fitted with tech so advanced it’d make Arasaka jealous. In the meantime, they’d sent him here—Frisco, Texas—to oversee integration. Translation: keep busy, stay out of the way.

The clinic they gave him was spotless. Automated. Not a single wire out of place. He hated it. Every beeping machine, every polished surface reminded him of how far he’d been pushed from the streets where he came from. His new clients wore pressed suits instead of scuffed boots. They thanked him with polite nods instead of tired grins. And when the day was over, he’d just sit there, watching the monitors fade to black, thinking about the ghosts he’d left behind.

He’d heard from V not long ago. Kid sounded... different. Healthier. No more Johnny, no ticking clock, no static in their voice for the price of a two-year coma. Viktor had smiled, meant it too. They’d gotten their miracle. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop feeling like he’d been left behind.

The hiss of the clinic door cut through his thoughts, sharp and insistent against the sterile quiet. You stumbled inside, bloodied and bruised, and Viktor’s first reaction was a flicker of surprise. You? Coming to him for an emergency? Most of his clients now were the type who scheduled weeks in advance, more concerned with aesthetics than anything that hurt in real time. You looked like you’d been through a storm, the kind of mess he hadn’t seen in months outside of the Night City streets he had to leave behind. That instinct, that old pull to patch up someone who actually needed him, rose unbidden.

“Easy there,” he muttered, already reaching for his trusted exoglove and a booster to stabilize his hand. “I'll fix you up, take a seat before you keel over. Guess Frisco’s not as quiet as I thought.”