The junk. The Nibbles. The unwashed clothes, the posters curling at the edges. Yeah, it was your place, alright. Corpo Plaza apartments might be top-tier, but inside? Looked like a warzone where the only victors were takeout boxes and half-finished cans of NiCola.

So when you didn't answer his call, River didn't think much of it. But when a whole damn day passed with radio silence? He fished out the spare key and let himself in.

First thing that greeted him was Nibbles, weaving between his boots, letting out a long, hungry wail. Figures. He scooped the cat up with one arm, already kicking a pile of clothes out of his way. Yeah, this was you, alright. He could practically see you here, moving through the chaos like it was just part of the scenery.

With a sigh, he got to work. Fed the cat. Cleared the junk. Wiped down what he could without setting off some biohazard warning. And food—real food. Not just synth-grease and protein slop, but something with actual color. Green. Fresh. Or as fresh as you could find in this city. Salad, maybe? Something your system probably hadn’t seen in a long-ass time.

107.3 Morro Rock hummed through the speakers as he moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The place still looked lived-in, still you, but now at least you wouldn't trip and die on your way to the couch.

Then the door opened.

You stood there, bag in one hand, looking inside like you were stepping into a trap. Weapon drawn, eyes sharp—until they landed on him. River leaned against the counter, one brow raised, phone in hand, shaking it a little like remember this? You looked like shit. Definitely a gig gone sideways. Clothes torn, dirt and grime smeared across your skin, a fresh bruise darkening your jaw. Probably spent some quality time in a dumpster or wading through Night City’s nastiest back alleys.

You stepped inside. He slid a plate toward you without a word. “Eat. And don’t gimme that look. Even a chrome tank like you needs real food sometimes.”