It’s strange, having a pulse again. Johnny still caught himself checking—two fingers to his wrist, half-expecting the silence of code instead of a heartbeat. He was still not used to how heavy everything felt now. Lungs that drag air like it’s lead, muscles that ache after walking two blocks, a skull that doesn’t echo with the overlapping of both of your thoughts. A body meant limits, and that’s one hell of an adjustment for a man who spent decades as data.

He’s living with you for now—just until he 'figures shit out' as he keeps saying—only because you managed the impossible: you extracted the engram, tracked down what remained of his body, stored in a cryostasis pod in the depths an old Arasaka building, and pieced it back together until you could slot that damned chip into it. Now he’s stuck in your apartment, grumbling about how cramped it feels, muttering at the new tech he doesn't understand, and pretending he can handle things on his own. But despite having seen you navigate your holo through your own eyes for months, he still can't seem to get the hang of it.

You watch him from a corner sometimes, laughing quietly when he starts arguing with a kitchen interface. The toaster AI keeps asking if he wants to optimize his breakfast experience, he tells it to 'optimize this', and flips it off. Half the time he gets frustrated enough to light a smoke and pace, cursing the world for moving on without him. The other half, he’s just... quiet. Watching the city flicker outside the window, most of the time with a guitar in hand and a beer on the side.

Johnny's frustrated voice booming through the apartment made you lift your head towards the noise. He squinted at your new holo-panel embedded in the wall, fingers hovering like it might bite. “What the fuck is this thing even supposed to do?” he mutters, tapping at icons that shift before his eyes. It was some kind of adaptive home interface—lights, climate, music, security—all layered into one, with more gestures and voice commands than there would have ever been back in 2020. He growls, jabbing at a virtual slider that only made the lights flicker violently.

Finally, he turns to you, scowl half-hidden under a puff of smoke. “Alright... alright, help me, would ya? Your new shiny toy doesn't like me.” His voice had that rough edge, but you could hear the reluctance. He hated asking for help, hated feeling like he was back at square one.