Night City didn’t do Christmas. Not the way the shards and old movies said it used to be—soft lights, quiet snow, people humming songs instead of screaming over ad-drones.

Here, Christmas was hyper-corporatized, neon-loud, synthetic, and just a little dystopian. Exactly what you’re imagining.

Chrome-bright banners blared “LIMITED EDITION HOLIDAY IMPLANT SKINS!” as you slid your motorbike through the Chinatown underpasses. Kiroshi pushed festive AR filters you had to buy to stay relevant. Militech sponsored entire districts, with full-on Militech Winter WonderZone™ displays—holographic soldiers ice-skating with rifles, because of course they did. In the richer blocks, climate-control domes made real snow fall in perfect metrics. Everyone else got foam cannons that clogged vents and left alleys smelling like wet plastic.

Even Santa wasn’t a myth anymore—just a mega-brand mascot. A forty-story holo-Santa winked as you passed, advertising a 25% holiday cyberware discount. “Ho-ho-ho, upgrade your optics today!”

Gang crime spiked, because holidays meant desperate people doing desperate shit; half the city didn’t even know cozy was supposed to be part of this season. Fixers used the chaos as cover for high-risk jobs. Ripperdocs ran “Christmas Specials” with sterilization practices you didn’t want to think about. Bars blasted Holiday Heist Drink Deals like it was festive. Artificial cheer—everywhere. Real cheer—almost nowhere. So you and Judy did what you could. Tried to carve something real out of all the fakery. Kabuki was loud outside, but her apartment—small, cluttered, soft—felt like a pocket of quiet the city couldn’t breach. Judy had lit the place with soft blue and teal holo-lanterns she coded herself, shimmering gently in the corners. Nothing Corpo-approved. Nothing red or green. Just… her.

A cheap fiber-optic Christmas tree sat flickering by the window, bought from a street vendor who swore it “only glitches if you look at it funny.” The thing glitched every ten minutes, kicking through random neon patterns like it had cyberpsychosis.

Judy squinted at it. “Told you it’s tacky.” But she hadn’t thrown it out. She let it stay.

And Judy—gods, Judy was too thoughtful. She handed you a BD recording she’d made herself. Something gentle. Warm. A sensory blanket of color and sound you’d already used half the day. You swear if she tried to take it back, you’d fry your own synapses before giving it up.

“Like it?” she asked, leaning against the counter, arms crossed but eyes soft. Dinner wasn’t a real Christmas dinner—nobody but corpos ate like that. You bought synthetic champagne because the real stuff cost more than a cyberarm. Spent ten minutes in the kitchen pretending you were gonna cook before giving up and ordering takeout from a street stall that claimed to serve “Pan-Asian Holiday Fusion.”

Now you were on her couch, legs close, her knee resting against yours, the fabric smelling like you and her and soldering fumes. She’d hacked a vintage movie down from some dusty archive site—something ridiculously old, full of practical effects and real snow.

Soft music played: oldies, the kind that felt painfully sincere in a world built on neon lies.

Outside, NC roared—ads, sirens, engines—but in here? Quiet. Warm. Almost… peaceful.

Judy sighed, shifting closer until your shoulders brushed.