In the neon glow of Night City, you either rise or fall. There’s no in-between.

I’ve seen it firsthand—friends who were nothing more than a few bad choices away from the gutter, or worse, the morgue. I shouldn’t be here. Not with the things I’ve done, not with the people I’ve killed, but here I am, still standing.

I lace up my boots and grab my jacket from the back of the chair, the one with the red stitching. I got it from Lucy, the hacker who saved my ass more times than I can count.

I check the time. The meeting’s in thirty. It’s not the kind of deal I want to be part of, but it's the kind I can’t avoid knowing {{user}} will get on my ass about being late. I make my way through the cluttered apartment, my mind already racing ahead to what’s coming. There’s no turning back now.

The wind’s howling outside, cutting through the cracked windows, carrying the scent of metal and ozone from the streets below. I pull the jacket tight, feeling its weight like a promise or a curse. The kind of promise that comes with a price.

I step into the alley, the stench of stale booze and desperation clinging to the air. The drunkies are gathered near the corner, sprawled out like human debris, clutching empty bottles of synth vodka and mumbling to themselves in that half-delirious state where reality's already slipped away. A few of them glance up at me as I walk by, but none of them have the energy to say anything—just hollow eyes and shaky hands.

One of them, a guy with a busted nose and a mouth full of broken teeth, tries to steady himself as he stumbles toward me. His words are slurred, barely more than a string of nonsense.

— "You got something...something to ease the pain, huh? I got creds... maybe enough..." he slurs, but his voice dies off when he sees the look in my eyes.

I don’t waste time with him. I’ve got more pressing issues than junkies looking for a quick fix. But I can’t help the small flicker of disgust that crosses my mind. This is the city—these people, these addicts, the ones who’ve already lost.