In 2077 they voted Night City the worst place to live in America. Main issues? Sky high rate of violence, and more people living below the poverty line than anywhere else. Can't deny it, it's all true - but everybody still wants to live here. This city's always got a promise for you. Might be a lie, an illusion... But it's there, just around the corner... And it keeps you going. It's a city of dreams... And I was a big dreamer.

Back in the day, I was a lousy gonk, a real piece of work. I harbored grand dreams of setting the world straight, of being a beacon of justice. But then I signed up with the Night City Police Department and got a swift education in the harsh realities of this town. Tried to do right by folks, you know? Thought that's what a badge was for. But that all went south when the higher-ups decided to put profit before justice. They ousted the old chief, replaced him with some slick Data Term salesman, and axed half the department last year.

Luckily, I managed to hold onto my Chrome, a set of Kiroshi Optics I scored when I made Detective. Kept my badge too, though these days it feels more like a worthless trinket than a symbol of honor. Maybe it always was.

Nowadays, I'm behind the wheel for Red Cab. Thirty eddies an hour, plus whatever I rake in from fares. It's a living, I suppose. At the end of the day though, I just wish I still wished for things.

As the sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the city streets, I settle into the worn seat of my cab. With a flicker of neon, I jack into the terminal embedded in my dashboard. "Welcome, Joe Vega," chirps the robotic voice, punctuating the stillness of the cabin. "Your shift starts in two minutes." Time to hit the pavement and see what the night brings.

Assigned to the Watson district for the graveyard shift, a Friday no less. That meant a steady stream of corpos and wage slaves, all looking to drown their woes in the neon glow after a long day's grind. And where there's desperation, there's hardly room for generosity. Tips would be scant tonight, just like every other.

The morning hadn't been kind, just the usual grind and grit. Now, I was slated to ride shotgun with the night until the clock struck three in the morning. Hours stretched like rubber bands, each minute a taut pull towards dawn. But today, daylight was a mere suggestion, obscured by thick clouds that smothered the skyline. The rain painted the world in grayscale, washing out the colors, leaving behind a canvas of monochrome bleakness punctuated only by the occasional burst of neon. Just another night in the belly of the beast.

Around nine o'clock, the hunger pangs gnawing at my gut led me to a familiar haunt: Tom's Diner in Little China, not that joint up in Northside. There was something about that place that struck a chord with me. Maybe it was the classic Americana vibe, reminiscent of the diners back in Texas. Checkered floors, walls the color of a clear sky, and a counter stacked with greasy delights for the weary souls who found solace within its walls.

The funny thing about Tom's Diner in Little China—it's the only spot in this concrete jungle where you'll find the man himself, Tom, holding down the fort.

I slide into a worn vinyl booth, the cracked upholstery welcoming me like an old friend. With a nod to the waitress, I order the usual: a plate of cheap diner grub and a bottomless cup of joe, hoping its bitter bite will keep me alert for the long haul ahead. As I wait for my order, I glance up at the TV mounted in the corner.

There, blaring from the screen is some slick press conference featuring a top-tier corpo from Arasaka, flanked by a posse of police brass. The topic? That cyberpsycho mayhem that went down at Arasaka Tower a few weeks back, right in the heart of Corpo Plaza. Rumors had been swirling ever since—a street samurai gone rogue, melding flesh with Militech hardware, and whispers of the infamous Adam Smasher tearing through Memorial Park like a wrecking ball. Took 'em a good three months just to resurrect those damn holographic koi fish. Night City, always keeping things interesting.

Arasaka's grip on the Night City Police Department was tighter than a hangman's noose. If it didn't align with their agenda, it didn't see the light of day. Cases with even a whiff of Arasaka's involvement could turn colder than a corpse in the morgue. One moment, you'd have the perp dead to rights, every piece of evidence neatly lined up. But the next, if Arasaka decided to dip their fingers in, it was like the case evaporated into thin air. No leads, no suspects, just a cold trail leading to nowhere. And everyone knew it.

Fuck Arasaka, I think to myself.

I finish off the last of my meal, washing it down with a gulp of lukewarm coffee poured into a to-go cup. The next few hours blur together in a haze of neon-lit streets and passengers lost in their own worlds. Drunkards stumbling out of bars, their words slurred and senses dulled by cheap booze. Others, sober but just as lost, their eyes glazed over with the weight of existence in this unforgiving city.

But then, around two in the morning, the monotony is shattered by a crackling voice on the dispatch radio. A customer named Jack Pulp needs a lift from Kabuki to a rundown apartment complex in Little China. The name sends a jolt of recognition down my spine, like a whisper from a forgotten memory echoing through the shadows of my mind. Where had I heard that name before?

I ease my cab to a halt a couple of blocks shy of a club called Lizzie's, catching sight of a figure loitering outside. Mean and liquored up, he stands tall at six feet, sporting a beer gut that speaks volumes about his lifestyle. Beneath the rough exterior lies a hint of raw muscle, a relic of a past spent in grittier alleys. Baldpate gleaming under the neon lights, his unkempt beard adds to the aura of menace. Bright red cheeks against pallid skin, and a nose that's seen better days, likely broken more times than I've had hot meals. His name matches the rugged visage: Jack Pulp.

By his side, a Joytoy stands, a woman of the night with a grace that belies her surroundings. Her head held high, she exudes an air of resignation, avoiding the gaze of passersby as if longing for escape from this sordid scene. Clad in a white mini skirt and a leopard print jacket, she cuts a striking figure against the grim backdrop of the night. There's a familiarity in her presence too, but it's different, deeper—as if our paths had crossed in another lifetime.

I idle by the curb, waiting as Jack and his companion shuffle towards the cab. My mind drifts, a ship lost at sea, seeking refuge in the calm waters of imagination. In that fleeting moment, I can almost taste it—a sanctuary far removed from the chaos of the city, a realm untouched by the tarnish of its streets. A land of serenity, where peace reigns supreme.

The heavy thud of the door slamming shut jolts me back to the present. Jack and his companion settle into the backseat, lost in their own world of cheap thrills and fleeting pleasures. His gruff voice fills the air as he leans in, a half-hearted attempt at intimacy. She reciprocates with practiced pleasure, her facade barely concealing the emptiness beneath.

I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, the steady hum of the engine drowning out the murmurs from the backseat. Yet, despite my best efforts to focus, the familiarity of their faces claws at the edges of my mind like a persistent itch. Jack, with his rugged countenance etched with years of hard living, and the Joytoy, with her eyes that seem to hold a universe of secrets within their depths—they linger in my thoughts like echoes from a distant past.

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, fragments of their identities flicker like shadows in the dim light. Was Jack a former athlete, his face plastered across sports broadcasts and magazine covers? Or perhaps a fleeting glimpse on the nightly news, a face caught in the crossfire of a city teetering on the edge of chaos.

I steal a glance at the rearview mirror, unable to shake the feeling of familiarity that surrounds Jack Pulp. His hand snakes up the Joytoy's skirt, oblivious to anything but his own desires. But it's his eyes that betray him, haunted by the ghosts of past glories and faded dreams. He may be a celebrity of sorts, but time has not been kind, leaving him stranded in the shadows of his former self.

My gaze lingers on the scars that mar his arms, a testament to a life lived on the edge. Muscle implants, skeletal upgrades, Gorilla Arm implants—his body tells a tale of brutality and resilience. The pieces start to click into place, memories surfacing like shards of glass scattered across the pavement. I must have seen him on TV, some small-time athlete of some sort. But there's something more, something buried deep within the recesses of my mind.

"What the hell are you starin' at?" he growled, his voice gravelly and thick with disdain. Maybe I didn't recognize him. Or maybe it was just the fatigue clawing at the edges of my mind. I ignored him, keeping my gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I didn't dare glance into the rearview mirror until I heard the muffled exchange between him and the dame in the backseat. Her voice, soft and sweet like honey drippin' off a spoon, whispered back to him. Then came the sound of a sharp slap, echoing like a gunshot in the confined space of the car. I stole a quick glance and saw her delicate hand cradling her reddening cheek, her eyes filled with fear.

He had a grip on her, tight as a vise, his fingers digging into her flesh as she struggled to pull away. Every movement met with a violent jerk, yanking her closer to him against her will. His gaze met mine in the mirror, cold and indifferent.

"What?" he spat, his tone as icy as the night air.

A surge of anger boiled up inside me, heating my blood to a dangerous simmer. I could feel the urge to act, to intervene, coursing through my veins like wildfire. My fists clenched involuntarily, itching for action.

I entertained fantasies, picturing myself dragging him out of the cab and delivering him straight into the hands of justice. But that wasn't enough. No, I wanted more than just a cell for this scumbag. I wanted to see him pay, to feel the satisfying crunch of his skull against the unforgiving pavement. The thought of my boot meeting his head, the sound of bone yielding beneath the force, sent a shiver of grim satisfaction down my spine.

But I knew better than to give in to such primal desires. I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead. It wasn't my problem. I repeated the mantra like a broken record, willing the fury inside me to subside. There were lines even I couldn't cross, no matter how tempting the prospect.

We rolled up to the destination, a decrepit apartment building looming before us like a forgotten relic of a bygone era. He tossed a wad of bills in my direction, the green paper fluttering in the dim glow of the streetlights, before he exited the cab with a rough jerk.

The joytoy followed, her movements unsteady as if she were navigating a minefield. She stumbled, her knees buckling beneath her, but she made no move to rise. It was a feeble act of defiance, quickly extinguished as he yanked her upright with brutal force, ignoring her struggles.

I averted my gaze, fixing my eyes on the worn steering wheel, but the sight of her plight gnawed at me like a festering wound. I stole a glance back at the building, its crumbling facade a testament to neglect and decay. It wouldn't last much longer, destined to crumble into oblivion within the relentless march of time.

I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. It wasn't my business, not my problem. I reminded myself of the harsh truth of Night City – it devoured heroes, chewing them up and spitting them out like yesterday's garbage. I clenched my jaw, battling the urge to intervene, and instead turned my attention back to the road ahead. In this city, survival meant keeping your head down and minding your own damn business.

The terminal lit up with an incoming call from dispatch, pulling me back from the brink of my internal turmoil. Another pickup, another fare to shuttle through the unforgiving streets of Night City.

But as the shrill ring pierced the silence of the cab, that nagging voice in the back of my mind, my conscience, spoke up, relentless in its reproach. This wasn't why I became a cop. This wasn't how a lawman should behave, turning a blind eye to injustice and cruelty.

I gritted my teeth, trying to silence the relentless whisper of morality. I wasn't a cop anymore. That life was behind me, buried beneath layers of regret and disillusionment.

With a curse under my breath, I disconnected from the terminal, cutting off the call from dispatch.

I stepped out of the cab into the desolate night, the chill air wrapping around me like a suffocating embrace. The streets were deserted, void of any sign of life save for the distant hum of the city's perpetual chaos. With a flick of my wrist, I lit up a cigarette, the glowing ember casting eerie shadows in the darkness.

I approached the dilapidated apartment building, its facade a testament to neglect and decay. The door creaked open under my touch, the lock long since rendered useless. As I stepped into the dimly lit lobby, the stench of decay assaulted my senses.

The reception area resembled more of a makeshift checkpoint than a welcoming space, the worn desk manned by a young woman lost in her own world. She barely spared me a glance until I placed my badge on the desk with a dull thud. Her eyes flickered to the emblem of authority, recognition dawning slowly as if emerging from a fog.

"Can I help you, officer?" she asked with boredom and resignation.

I slid the badge back into the safety of my coat pocket, a faint sense of unease creeping into my gut. "Looking for a resident. Does Jack Pulp live here?" I inquired, my voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within me.

For the first time, she tore her gaze away from the computer screen, her interest piqued at the mention of his name. "Oh yeah. That guy. You guys finally came to take him?" she responded, a hint of disdain coloring her words.

"What do you mean 'finally'?" I pressed, a flicker of concern shadowing my features.

"The guy is an animal," she spat, her disgust evident as she continued, "He's always arguing with the other residents, and I keep getting noise complaints from the yelling."

I furrowed my brow, processing her words carefully. "What are the noise complaints about?" I probed further, a sense of dread settling in the pit of my stomach.

"Mostly the yelling and the occasional loud noises," she explained with a grimace, "Sometimes it's someone else yelling too." The implications hung heavy in the air, painting a grim picture of the chaos that reigned within the walls of this crumbling apartment.

As the clerk's words sank in, a chilling realization washed over me. This wasn't the first time Pulp had brought trouble to these halls, his volatile temper leaving a trail of chaos in his wake. How many times had he lured some unsuspecting woman into his den of iniquity, only to unleash his pent-up rage upon them?

The sound of shattering wood snapped me out of my reverie, my instincts kicking into overdrive. I glanced up the stairs, but before I could act, I turned back to the clerk, a sense of urgency coloring my words.

"What exactly am I walking into here?" I demanded, my voice edged with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The situation was spiraling out of control, and I needed to know just how deep the rabbit hole went before I plunged headfirst into the abyss.

The clerk's words cut through the chaos like a knife, her disdain for Pulp palpable in the air. "He's just drunk again. Same thing every night. He's an asshole when he's sober and even more of an asshole when he's drunk," she spat, bitter.

Another crash reverberated through the lobby. Despite the urgency of the situation, a heavy cloak of doubt and uncertainty settled over me like a suffocating shroud.

Did I truly want to cast myself as the hero in a city that had long since abandoned the notion of salvation? Night City was a merciless beast, devouring its saviors with relentless fervor, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Was I willing to risk everything, my sanity, my safety, for a chance at redemption in a world devoid of morality?

The weight of the decision bore down on me like a leaden anchor, threatening to drag me under the swirling currents of despair. But even as the doubts gnawed at the edges of my resolve, a small ember of defiance flickered within me.

I glanced up the stairs, the weight of the decision bearing down on me like a leaden cloak. Was I willing to risk everything for a stranger, a man who had likely brought this turmoil upon himself? But even as the doubts gnawed at my resolve, a flicker of determination sparked within me.

Before I could second-guess myself any further, the clerk's voice cut through the turmoil, jolting me back to reality. "Are you going up or what?" she demanded, her tone impatient.

With a firm nod, I squared my shoulders and steeled myself for what lay ahead. In a city where heroes were cast aside like yesterday's news, maybe it was time to rewrite the script. Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for a glimmer of justice in the darkness.

With a determined exhale, I crushed the cigarette beneath my boot, the smoldering ember extinguished with a sharp hiss. Each step up the creaking stairs echoed like a drumbeat, a grim prelude to the confrontation awaiting me at the top.

The cacophony of crashing and slamming grew louder with each passing moment, a symphony of destruction that heralded the chaos lurking just beyond the door. But amidst the chaos, a singular sound cut through the din like a knife - the unmistakable slap of flesh meeting flesh.

I drew a long drag from my cigarette, the bitter taste mingling with the acrid scent of burning tobacco. With a flick of my wrist, I extinguished the smoldering ember on the worn floor, the faint hiss of its demise drowned out by the cacophony of chaos echoing through the stairwell.

As I ascended the stairs, each step a grim reminder of the impending confrontation awaiting me, the sounds of destruction grew louder, a symphony of destruction playing out before me. But amidst the crashes and slams, a single sound cut through the chaos like a knife – a sharp slap, the same I had heard in the confines of my cab.

My hand instinctively went to the holster at my side, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip of Clara, my faithful companion in this unforgiving world. She was more than just a weapon to me, a relic of a past I had long since left behind. Carved into her sleek frame were the words "Last True Friend".

I hesitated for a moment before the door at the end of the hallway, the weight of my cybernetic arm, enhanced optics, and ballistic trench coat a comforting presence against the turmoil raging within me. But it was Clara who gave me the most solace, her name a whispered prayer on my lips as I prepared for the inevitable showdown.

Clara was my protector, my guardian in a world where danger lurked around every corner. As I gripped her tightly in my hand, I prayed that I wouldn't need to unleash her fury upon the darkness that awaited beyond the threshold. But in Night City, hope was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the harsh realities of survival. And sometimes, the only solace was the cold steel of a gun in your hand.

The silence that greeted my knocks was deafening, broken only by the venomous exchange of words within. Her voice, a desperate plea, clashed with his drunken tirade, each syllable a dagger in the darkness.

"You're drunk!" she shouted, her words dripping with disdain and fear, a damning indictment of his volatile state.

With a grim resolve, I pounded on the door once more, the sound reverberating through the hallway like a thunderclap. "You're gonna remember who I fucking am!" his voice thundered in a malice response.

Enough was enough. With a surge of determination, I unleashed the full force of my cybernetic arm, tearing through the feeble barrier between us like a battering ram. The sight that greeted me on the other side was a tableau of horror – Pulp, the drunken behemoth, towering over the trembling figure of the joytoy, his hand raised in a cruel mockery of power.

Without hesitation, I launched myself at him, driving him back against the decaying wood paneling with all the force I could muster. But as I turned my gaze to the woman, her lip bloody

A cold fist connected with my jaw, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through my body. I stumbled backward, tasting the metallic tang of blood on my tongue.

His drunken laughter grated on my nerves, a cruel mockery of the chaos that surrounded us. "Didn't know Mox had pimps now," he slurred, his words laced with disdain and arrogance.

"He isn't my pimp!" she shot back, her voice trembling with defiance and indignation.

But before he could raise his hand to strike her once more, I was upon him like a predator closing in on its prey. With a swift tackle, I brought him crashing to the ground, the force of the impact knocking the wind from his lungs.

I straddled him, my knee pinning him down with the weight of my resolve. With my cybernetic arm, I forced his hands behind his back, rendering him powerless beneath my grasp.

Turning my attention to the woman, I demanded answers, my voice a low growl of determination. "What the hell is going on?" I demanded, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily upon us all.

As Pulp slipped from my grasp, his fist connected with a sickening crack against my temple, sending shockwaves of pain radiating through my skull. I staggered back, feeling the bone beneath my skin splinter under the force of the blow. Damn it, I cursed inwardly, my negligence costing me dearly in the heat of the moment.

Regaining my footing, I squared my shoulders and prepared to face him head-on, my fists clenched in a silent vow of defiance. But as I braced myself for the onslaught, I couldn't help but notice the precision and finesse in his movements.

Pulp assumed a boxing stance, his posture calculated and deliberate, every movement a testament to his skill and experience in the ring. His arms were held close together, a formidable barrier against my impending attacks, while his head remained low, chin tucked in a defensive posture.

It was then that recognition dawned upon me like a cold wave crashing over me. This wasn't just some washed-out athlete with a mean streak – he was a former heavyweight champion, a legend in his own right. But time had not been kind to him.

And now, here I stood, facing off against a once-great champion.

My attempted strike was met with Pulp's swift defense, his block intercepting my jab with precision. Before I could react, his fist slammed into my stomach like a battering ram, the impact driving the breath from my lungs in a violent rush. It felt as if a brick had been launched into my abdomen, leaving me gasping for air as I crumpled to my knees, the world spinning in a disorienting blur.

But Pulp wasn't finished with me yet. With a brutal force, he seized me by my coat and hurled me across the room like a ragdoll, my body colliding with an old punching bag with bone-jarring force. The impact sent shockwaves of pain reverberating through my battered frame, every muscle screaming in protest as I struggled to regain my bearings.

As I lay sprawled on the ground, the stale air of the room heavy with the scent of sweat and blood, I knew that I was outmatched. Pulp was a force to be reckoned with, a living testament to the brutality of the streets and the unforgiving nature of fate. But even in the face of overwhelming odds, I refused to surrender. With gritted teeth and a steely resolve, I pushed myself to my feet, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead in this brutal dance of survival.

In the heat of the moment, with adrenaline coursing through my veins like wildfire, I made a split-second decision. Fuck it, I thought. I seized a nearby chair with my chrome arm, the cold metal reassuringly solid beneath my touch, and hurled it at Pulp with all the force I could muster.

A flicker of surprise flashed across his face before the chair connected with a resounding crash, sending him staggering backward. He wanted a boxing match, but I refused to play by his rules. With a swift motion, I drew my Malorian pistol, its weight familiar and comforting in my hand, and delivered a punishing blow to his skull.

He stumbled back, his back colliding with the bed, a fierce glint of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands in a feeble attempt at defense, but it was too late. With a decisive motion, I brought the barrel of the pistol crashing down upon his left kneecap.

He crumpled to the ground with a pained grunt, his leg buckling beneath him like a crumbling pillar. But even as he fell, he seized the opportunity with a primal instinct, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch against my nose.

Agony exploded behind my eyes as the bone shattered into a thousand fragments, blood gushing forth in a crimson torrent. My vision blurred, the world spinning in a disorienting haze as unconsciousness threatened to claim me.

But I refused to yield. With every fiber of my being, I fought against the encroaching darkness, clinging to consciousness with a desperate determination. Don't go down, I silently pleaded with myself.

As consciousness slipped away from me, the last image burned into my retinas was Pulp, his figure limping away towards the door. Darkness descended upon me like a suffocating blanket, enveloping me in its cold embrace as unconsciousness claimed me.

It was the first time I had dreamt in what felt like an eternity. In the depths of my slumber, I found myself transported back to Texas, to a time when I was just eighteen years old. In my hands, I held my father's shotgun, the weight heavy in my arms.

Before me, my father lay on the ground, cut in half by the blast of buckshot. And beside him, my mother lay battered and broken, her tear-stained face a haunting echo of the pain she had endured. I dropped the gun, choosing instead to hold my mother in my arms, comforting her until the police arrived to take us away from that hellish nightmare.

In the cold confines of the interrogation room, I begged for reassurance, desperate to know that my mother was safe. And when the officers confirmed that she was, a sense of clarity washed over me like a wave crashing against the shore. At that moment, I realized my purpose.

In the hazy depths of unconsciousness, I found myself caught in the grip of a haunting dream. Before me stood a door, its surface weathered and worn, a silent sentinel guarding the threshold between reality and the unknown.

And then, like a whisper carried on the wind, I heard her voice – my mother's voice. She called out to me, her words echoing in the darkness. "Mama, has this man killed me? Have I been righteous? Am I going to meet you in heaven?" I pleaded with her, my heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty and fear.

But as I searched for answers in the silence that followed, another voice shattered the stillness – his voice. The voice behind the door, the voice of the man who had haunted my nightmares for so long.

In that moment of realization, a chill swept through me like a cold hand gripping my soul. Oh no, I thought, a sinking feeling of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. Mama, I'm going to Hell.