The acid rain comes down in dirty sheets, slicking the cracked asphalt of Watson until the holographic billboards bleed their neon guts across every puddle. Down here, the air tastes like cheap synthetic tobacco, ozone, and burnt flux. Above you, the gleaming towers of Arasaka and Militech slice clean through the smog, untouchable and cold, while the heavy thrum of high-end Aerodynes rattles the fire escapes of the gutter rats scrambling below.

Welcome to Night City, choom.

Nobody gets a free pass, and nobody stays pure meat forever. The chrome calls to everyone eventually—whether it’s a stolen set of Kiroshis shoved into a bloody socket, calibrated cyber-fingers slicing through nerve bundles, or a military-grade reflex booster screaming through a fried nervous system. Everyone here is clawing for an angle. The scavs strip the fresh dead in the alleyways, the suits in City Center sign death warrants with gold-plated styluses, and the solos bleed out on wet concrete just hoping a fixer remembers their handle long enough to pay their tab at the Afterlife.

You’re awake now. Shivering against a concrete wall while a flickering Holo-ad for Mr. Studd screams in your ear and an icy drop of rain hits the back of your neck. Your pockets are empty of eddies, your rep is flatlined, and the street is already eyeing what little you’ve got left to take.

Out here, you either carve a name into the concrete or you end up as spare parts in a bucket under some basement operating slab. Time's up, and Night City doesn't wait on gonks.

Look down at your hands, look up at the neon, and tell me: what kind of monster are you fixin’ to become?

Guest start how you want.