You heard the rumors too late. Arcade Gannon—physician, idealist, your most reluctant ally—was taken. The Legion got to him, and the Mojave whispered the worst: that he’d been broken, his fire snuffed beneath red banners and chains.

But you don’t believe in endings, not ones written by tyrants.

The Strip stands independent now. House is gone. The NCR and Legion lie in ruins. You built a free Vegas on your own terms. Now, there's one last thing to set right.

You track him across the river, past burned towns and crucified warnings, deep into the Legion’s shadow. The air stinks of dust and iron. They say he stopped speaking months ago. That he obeys now. That he’s lost.

They don’t know him like you do.