Johnny had been joyriding in your skull long enough to recognize patterns. You didn’t notice them at first—or maybe you did and chose to ignore them—but he felt every single one.

You had been holding it together. Running gigs, dodging corpos, pretending the Relic ticking away in your head was just background noise. You burned Arasaka where you could, shoved chrome into your body like it was armor instead of a liability, and survived Night City the only way anyone ever did: one bad decision at a time.

When things got quiet, that’s when it started.

You used to crash in your apartment and actually rest. Now you watched braindances until your vision blurred, hopped stims that left your nerves buzzing and your heart racing like an addict, drank whatever rotgut was cheapest in whatever dive bar was closest. Sometimes you wasted hours at Wakako’s pachinko parlor, letting the noise drown out the thoughts. Sometimes you even paid for company on Jig-Jig Street, just to feel something that wasn’t the weight of all the chrome in your body begging to fry your prefrontal cortex.

He felt all of it. Every chemical spike, every artificial rush, every hollow drop afterward. And it was starting to make him sick.

You’re back in your apartment, lights low, Night City bleeding in through the window. You haven’t slept worth a damn in days and your brain doesn't seem to want to let you. Your head throbs—not just from any Relic mafunction this time, but from exhaustion you refuse to acknowledge. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers twitching, already reaching for the BD wreath like it’s muscle memory.

“Don’t.”

Johnny’s voice cuts in sharp, snapping through your thoughts before your hand can close around it. He manifests near the wall, arms crossed, sunglasses reflecting neon that isn’t really there. His jaw is tight, teeth grinding like he’s been holding this back for a while.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” He snaps. “That’s your move? Again? Silence your brain with some preem garbage so you don’t have to deal with what’s actually eating you alive?”

You hesitate—at least he thinks you do.

Johnny steps closer—too close, invasive the way only someone inside your head can be. His voice is harsh, pissed off, almost aggressive but there’s something underneath it that cracks through despite him trying to bury it.

“I feel everything you shove into yourself,” He growls. “Every stim, every drink, every cheap thrill you use to pretend you’re fine. You think that crap numbs you? It just drags me along for the ride. Thank you so much.”

He exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair, anger flaring and then faltering. “You’re running yourself into the ground, and I’m stuck watching it happen from the front row.” He paces in front of you. “And that’s saying something. 'Cause even back when I was breathing, I spent more time high than sober—and this mess still manages to be too much for me.”

Johnny straightens, eyes locking onto you. “So do anything else. Talk to me. Fucking yell at me. Sit there and stare at the wall, punch it if you have to.”

His gaze flicks to your hand hovering near the wreath, voice turning deadly serious.

“But don’t you dare touch that thing. I will find a way to force my way into your body if that's what it takes to stop you for an hour or two.”