Arthur gunned the battered motorcycle Mitch had given him and tore down the broken highways leading back toward Night City.
The wind was sharp and filthy, carrying the stench of burned rubber and something much worse.
But Arthur grinned under his helmet.
He had to admit — motorcycles were a hell of a lot more convenient than four-wheeled cages, especially in a city where traffic jams were deadlier than most firefights.
As he sped along, a call popped up on his HUD.
Beep— Incoming Transmission.
"Well done, Arthur," came the familiar raspy voice of the old captain. "You're still a treasure. Money's already being transferred to your account. You're happy, I'm happy, the client's happy — a true win-win-win."
Arthur barked a dry laugh.
"Really? 'Cause I'm not exactly thrilled. That job ran a bit too deep for my liking.
If there's a follow-up, you better think twice before shoving it in my inbox."
He wasn't joking either.
After everything he just went through — military tech chasing him across the Badlands, Lucy almost strangling him, NCPD friends nearly arresting him — Arthur was dangerously low on patience.
"Zhuo, you don't need to tell me that kind of thing," the old captain said breezily. "I'm just the middleman, kid. I don't choose the work."
Arthur snorted but let it slide.
"Fine, forget it. Listen — you remember that little business venture I mentioned?"
The old captain paused.
"Yeah, the 'cooperation' thing. Go on."
Arthur smirked inside his helmet.
Time to plant the seeds.
"I'm looking to move some product through your channels," he said casually. "It's legit — or at least, as legit as anything gets around here."
"I'm listening."
Arthur adjusted his grip on the throttle as the ruined skyline of Night City loomed closer.
"I had cyberpsychosis once," he said bluntly. "But I worked out a cure. Developed my own version of a suppressor chip."
"Suppressor chip?" the captain sounded more interested now.
"Yeah. One-time buy, lifetime benefits.
Unlike inhibitors that bleed you dry every month.
This little baby can suppress cyberpsychotic tendencies permanently."
There was a long silence over the line.
"...Holy sh*t. You're serious."
"As a heart attack," Arthur said.
"This could help a lot of people. Common folk. Mercs. Even some of your clients, I'd wager."
"You're not wrong. And you want me to move it through my networks."
"Exactly. You got the reach. I got the miracle cure."
The old captain laughed.
"You are so full of sh*t, Arthur — but I love it. Alright. Five percent cut."
Arthur almost dropped his bike.
"Five?! Old captain, c'mon. I'm your loyal sailor! Doesn't loyalty buy me anything?"
"You want loyalty? Buy a dog," the captain snapped. "Business is business. Five percent or p*ss off."
Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically, though no one could see it.
"Fine." he grumbled. "Originally, I was gonna tack on 20% markup...
Since you're bleeding me dry, I'll bump it up to 25% instead."
"You sly b*stard," the captain said admiringly.
"You're gonna make a fine corpo one day."
Arthur shivered in mock horror.
"Don't curse me like that, old man."
They both laughed.
Business, Night City style: a knife in one hand, a handshake in the other.
"Alright, kid. I'll wait for your first batch. Keep in touch."
The call ended.
As dusk fell, Arthur finally rolled into the outskirts of Night City.
The setting sun splashed the skyline with grimy gold, but instead of warmth, it gave the city a sickly, dying glow.
The light was dirty. So was everything it touched.
Arthur pulled over for a moment and just... watched.
The streets were alive with the usual madness.
Homeless clusters shivered in abandoned lots.
Gangs in neon jackets loitered on cracked sidewalks, showing off their chrome like peacocks.
Luxury cars — glittering monsters from another world — tore through the trash-strewn streets, their engines screaming like banshees.
It was beautiful, in the way a rotting corpse under moonlight might be beautiful.
Arthur lit a cigarette with a shaky hand and took a long drag.
Everyone said Night City was a land of opportunity.
A dreamscape.
The place where anyone could become anything.
And maybe it was — but only if you didn't mind stepping on a thousand corpses to get there.
Only if you didn't mind becoming a corpse yourself along the way.
Night City didn't care about dreams.
It didn't care about hope.
It cared about profit.
The few who thrived — the corpos in their gleaming towers — they lived on the broken backs of everyone else.
The poor?
The desperate?
They were the bricks in the foundation.
And no matter how fast you ran, how hard you fought — odds were you'd end up another crumbling brick.
Arthur took another drag, feeling the smoke sear his lungs.
Still.
Dreams had to start somewhere.
And here, even broken dreams sometimes had sharp edges.
The motorcycle hummed under him as he pulled into Santo Domingo.
Home sweet slum.
Arthur dismounted, pocketed the ignition key, and stepped into the battered apartment block.
The elevator groaned and shuddered as he pressed the cracked button.
Inside, the ancient TV monitor flickered to life, playing some heavily edited Night City News broadcast.
"—and thanks to the mayor's outstanding leadership," the anchor gushed, "employment is up by 14%, violent crime is down by 9%, and Night City is entering a bold new era of prosperity!"
Arthur stared at the screen.
Then he laughed — a raw, bitter bark that made the old lady next to him shuffle away nervously.
Bold new era?
The real Night City was bleeding out in the gutters while the corpos polished the floors in their penthouses with lies.
The guy writing those news reports deserved a Nobel Prize for creative fiction.
Or at least an Oscar.
Arthur leaned back against the grimy elevator wall, closed his eyes, and let the smoke curl from his lips.
"Yeah," he muttered.
"Welcome back to the City of Dreams."
(Chapter 38 Complete!)