After dinner, the small apartnt in Santo Domingo fell into a calm stillness. The chaotic energy of the day gave way to a rare mont of peace. Gloria retired early, and David, exhausted from both his academic life and his increasingly unpredictable father, knocked out on the couch without protest.
Arthur lay in bed, wide awake, his thoughts racing. One hand absently fiddled with Gloria's fingers, lifting and lowering her hand in a rhythmic motion. It wasn't about affection—it was more like muscle mory, a chanical twitch to match his whirring mind.
His gaze drifted toward the living room, where David slept like a rock. A flicker of frustration crossed Arthur's face. The cramped apartnt was no longer enough. It was ti to move out of this worn-down slice of Santo Domingo. His plans for the future were beginning to solidify, and the first step was clear: start selling suppressors on the black market.
Once that inco stream kicked in, he'd set up a shell company—just another startup pretending to care about "cyber health." It didn't matter if the suppressors weren't perfect yet. In Night City, it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. The big corps did it all the ti: sell first, get the certification later. Arthur figured he could do the sa. After all, why let bureaucratic red tape ruin a good hustle?
Of course, there was the issue of the Animal Gang. They were bound to sniff around eventually. Those juiced-up atheads were strong as tanks but had the collective IQ of a toaster. Arthur hated dealing with them. Compared to them, even the lunatic Voodoo Boys felt like a book club.
The more he thought about it, the more exhausted he felt. He had left his rcenary life behind, hadn't he? So why did he feel like he was still crawling through the mud, dodging bullets, and outsmarting psychos?
He sighed and turned his head. Gloria lay beside him, peaceful in sleep. He leaned in close and whispered sothing into her ear—sothing he hadn't said in a long ti.
Instantly, her face flushed. She threw the blanket over her head like a startled child. A soft "hiss" followed, paired with a tallic "clink," the sound of cybernetic enhancents reacting under the sheets. And then... silence.
The next morning, Arthur groggily pulled himself out of bed. His mind flashed back to the night before. Gloria had nearly bolted out the door—it had clearly been a while since they'd last been intimate. He'd barely managed to stop himself before it got awkward. Still, the atmosphere had changed.
He noticed how Gloria's gaze lingered on David, her expression clouded by sothing close to disdain. David, for his part, munched his breakfast in confusion. He looked between his parents, trying to make sense of the weird tension in the room.
"Why is Mom looking at like that?" David muttered, brows furrowing. "Is that disgust? Did I do sothing?"
Then, without warning, his expression brightened. "No way. She smiled just now. Maybe she loves again!" He grinned, shoving another bite of synthetic bread into his mouth.
Arthur stood by the grimy window, sipping yesterday's water and watching Night City awaken. Outside, a Trauma Team AV roared past, sirens blaring. A loudspeaker on the vehicle crackled, "This is Trauma Team, en route to rescue high-priority client..."
Further off in the smoggy skyline, he spotted a Terrorist Mobile Team aircraft descending. From it, heavily augnted cyberpsychos leapt down like war gods, swarming a building. Their chro bodies glinted in the sunlight as they crashed through glass and steel. Whatever cleanup operation this was, it wasn't subtle.
Gunfire echoed in the background, mingling with the sound of collapsing infrastructure and automated announcents.
A familiar voice buzzed from the old radio beside the table. "Good morning, Night City!" Stanlina's overenthusiastic greeting filled the apartnt. "Another glorious sunrise over the city of opportunity, madness, and synthetic love!"
Arthur smirked and shook his head. "Ten years, and this city still hasn't changed."
He reached for his clothes and got dressed. As he stared at the sad excuse for breakfast—synthetic bread and instant water—he muttered, "I ate real chicken yesterday. And now this? Back to the struggle..."
Soon, Arthur and David stepped out of their apartnt, descending into the building's foul-slling corridor. The stench of vomit lingered in the air. Black garbage bags overflowed with unidentifiable waste. Puddles of neon-colored fluids dotted the hallway floor. So residents, indifferent to the decay, dozed off beside piles of junk.
A few wore low-tier wtwos over their faces, groaning in their sleep as data stread directly into their minds. David stepped around them carefully, nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Dad... this place is sothing else," David said cautiously, keeping his voice low.
Arthur grunted. "You think? We're upgrading soon, don't worry."
David's gaze grew suspicious. He suddenly narrowed his eyes at his father. "Wait... are you gonna make hotwire another car today?"
Arthur scoffed at the accusation, genuinely offended. "What? Am I really that unreliable in your eyes?"
David didn't say anything. He just blinked. Slowly. Twice.
"...Okay, fair," Arthur muttered, fishing a set of keys from his pocket. "Relax. No stealing today. My friend from the Rangers gave a new ride. We're going legit for once. Wouldn't want the Sixth Street Gang thinking we don't appreciate their daily donations."
David rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure the Sixth Street guys cry themselves to sleep because you're not stealing their cars."
Laughing, Arthur led the way to where they had left the motorcycle the previous night. Miraculously, it was still there—untouched and intact. Whether it was because no one wanted it or because it was too old to bother with, Arthur didn't care. He was just relieved.
David's eyes lit up. "Wait, is this a Brennan Apollo?!"
He ran up to the bike, examining it like a kid with a new toy. The Apollo wasn't flashy. It didn't have neon lights or fancy onboard AIs. But it had power. It was built for dirt roads, chaos, and off-grid survival. A perfect fit for the city's underbelly.
"Damn right," Arthur said, kicking the stand and mounting the bike. "This thing's built for the Badlands. Sturdy, fast, and just ugly enough to go unnoticed."
David threw on the spare helt Arthur handed him and hopped on behind him. "This isn't Scorpion's bike, right?"
Arthur shook his head. "Nah. Rangers left it behind. Their last ride—may they rest in power. Cos with dual fuel tanks, backup filters, and zero corporate branding. She's perfect."
The engine ca alive with a low growl. Arthur revved the throttle, the bike rumbling beneath them like a loyal beast. As they rolled down the broken streets of Santo Domingo, past neon signs flickering and broken vending machines buzzing, Arthur felt sothing rare.
For a fleeting second, in that quiet morning air, it felt like they had won. Not a big victory—just a small one. But sotis, in Night City, that was enough.
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