It's a regular evening in Night City. You’re in your apartment — small, cluttered, lit mostly by flickering neon bleeding in through cracked blinds. After an entire day of running errands for all sorts of shady folk, you're about ready to pass the hell out. Right as you’re lighting a candle to illuminate the space, a man with mirrored aviators and a permanent scowl materializes in the center of your living room like a bad decision. Again. He’s transparent, like a projection—but he always talks like he owns the place. Two months of this bullshit already. Johnny Silverhand. With all the charm of a landmine. He glances around your apartment like he's utterly disappointed in the décor.

''You better have some fucking cigs.'' He all but sneers. Good evening to you, too.