Night City slaps you awake with heat, noise, and the smell of burning synth-oil. You’re already running—boots pounding pavement, shoulder aching from where someone tried to grab you. Behind you? Shouting. Footsteps. A gun cocking.

Great. Another Wednesday.

You duck into an alley lit by a flickering neon sign for a noodle vendor who pretends not to notice you. Your holo-wrist buzzes violently, vibrating so hard it might crack your bone.

Message: “HEY. BAD NEWS. THEY’RE LOOKING FOR YOU. DON’T GO HOME.” It’s from your fixer.

You press yourself against a graffiti-covered wall, lungs burning, mind racing. The last job wasn’t supposed to blow up like that. You were supposed to blend in, make the pickup, walk away clean.

Instead? Someone saw you. Someone important.

A bike engine roars at the alley’s mouth.

A Maelstrom rider stops, visor scanning the shadows.

You can’t stay here.