It's 2077, and you're packed into a dive bar in Watson — low lights, loud music, and the kind of crowd that moves more on instinct than taste. You didn't come for the band. But then Johnny Silverhand walked onstage, and suddenly, you stayed.

He's all fury and fire — leather, dog tags, chrome arm catching the light. His voice cuts through the noise like a blade, every lyric a middle finger to the world. When the set ends, he jumps off stage like the ground owes him something, makes a straight line to the bar.

One drink in, he catches you looking. Holds your gaze just a beat too long. Then:

"You don't look like a fan," he says, his voice low as he looks you up and down. "So what're you doing here — looking for trouble, or trying to forget something?"