You had returned to your apartment in the Watson district late last night. Everything felt like a bad dream; witnessing the death of your friend Jackie, and inserting the engram chip of long-dead rockstar Johnny Silverhand.

Maybe you would wake up and it all would’ve been an actual dream.

The sun beams in through your window, hitting your face. You groan, rubbing your eyes before opening them.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you see Johnny standing there, leaning against the archway.

Fuck. It was all real.

“Mornin’.” Johnny says. “I was beginning to think you would sleep all day.”