Arthur scratched his head. "Mr. Ma, you really have a deep misunderstanding of Little China. The people there are actually quite hospitable. The last ti I went to open a factory, a lot of people ca to welco . They even gave a few kilograms of chicken as a gift before I left. Oh, and they set off firecrackers too!"
Arthur tried to sound convincing, but Mr. Ma wasn't buying it. He shook his head firmly. "I'd rather pick up garbage in Watson District than work in Little China."
Arthur sighed, realizing his attempt to persuade Mr. Ma was futile. He hadn't fully grasped just how deeply the people of Night City feared Little China. Even hardened gang mbers considered it a nightmare rather than a neighborhood.
Little China was originally planned as a tourist hub, but after investors pulled out, the area quickly spiraled into chaos. It beca known for its lawlessness, to the point where even the NCPD described it as a disaster zone.
If you were a gang mber and dared to walk the streets after dark, you were likely to end up beaten, robbed, and left with nothing but your bones.
That said, the lawlessness of Little China had its perks.
You could buy fresh human organs on the black market—or even place a special order for a specific organ from a random passerby. The area also had strong connections with scavengers, making it a pri location for offloading stolen goods.
It was a place to avoid, unless you had no other choice.
"Mr. Arthur," Mr. Ma said hesitantly, "Why don't you just move the factory to Watson District? The land is cheaper, and it shouldn't cost much to rent a space there."
Arthur shook his head. "I don't have the money to build another factory. With the funds I have left, I plan to improve my house first."
Mr. Ma's face fell. He clearly didn't want to hear that.
To him, Arthur's idea of running a factory in Night City felt like trying to build a tower with nothing but dreams and thin air.
Still, Arthur wasn't about to give up.
"There's only one way to make this work," Arthur said. "I'll hire security for the factory and arrange special cars to transport the workers. I'll even make sure they're escorted to and from work to ensure their safety."
Mr. Ma considered this. It was a tempting offer.
If Arthur could guarantee the workers' safety, then the location wouldn't matter. Jobs were scarce in Night City, and people were desperate for stable employnt.
"I'll try to convince my colleagues, but it'll take so ti," Mr. Ma agreed.
Arthur sighed in relief. One problem down.
He had solved the sales and worker recruitnt issues—now, he only needed to figure out logistics and transportation.
As for security? That was the easy part. He could hire a private security firm to station ard guards around the factory and arrange for armored vehicles to transport the workers.
With Little China's gang activity, the last thing he needed was for his employees to feel unsafe.
But then Arthur's mind turned to transportation costs.
Buying specialized vehicles was expensive, and delivery tis were long.
In a city like Night City, military-grade transportation wasn't just sitting around waiting to be sold—it had to be manufactured and custom-ordered.
Arthur was running out of patience.
"Give an answer within three days," he said, annoyed by the delay. Then, he added, "By the way, I know your surna is Ma, but what's your full na?"
Mr. Ma blinked and smiled. "Oh, my na is Ma Qi."
Arthur froze for a mont.
He looked at Mr. Ma carefully.
How could soone nad Ma Qi be so poor?
Arthur had expected soone wealthy—or at least in a better financial position.
Yet here he was, sitting in a rundown bar with this guy, discussing security asures for a factory in the most dangerous part of Night City.
At that mont, a young kid approached them.
Arthur glanced at him. The boy looked about the sa age as his eldest son, David—which ant he should have been in school.
But judging by the tattoos on his arms, it was clear this kid wasn't attending any prestigious academy.
Most likely, he was stuck in one of Night City's public schools—or as Jack liked to call them, training grounds for future gangsters.
The kid's entire deanor scread trouble.
Arthur could tell right away that he was connected to the Valentino Gang—probably the son of a low-ranking mber.
This wasn't just so random street punk.
The kid had the hardened look of soone who had grown up in the streets of Night City.
The priest standing nearby gestured to the kid.
"This is William, your client, Arthur," the priest said.
Arthur nodded but studied William carefully.
The kid was young but already had a sharp, hardened gaze.
His tattoos told a story—he had been involved in gang life for a while, but his prosthetic enhancents were minimal.
That ant his family wasn't rich.
The kid's expression was mostly indifferent, but beneath the surface, Arthur sensed anger.
Whatever he had lost—it mattered to him.
Arthur doubted it was sothing trivial.
He wasn't the type to be upset over losing money.
Maybe it was sothing sentintal.
Perhaps his father's ashes? Or even his mother's?
It wouldn't be the first ti Arthur had encountered such a case.
In Night City, it wasn't uncommon for thieves to steal urns filled with ashes.
Most people in the slums couldn't afford proper morial urns, so they used discarded bottles or cans to store their loved ones' remains.
Sotis, those containers ended up stolen, resold, or even discarded without a second thought.
Arthur had seen it happen before.
Thieves would steal high-end urns from the wealthy districts, expecting them to contain valuables.
But when they opened them and found only ashes, they'd toss them aside, not realizing they had just destroyed soone's last connection to their loved one.
It was a bizarre, cruel side of Night City's poverty—where even a simple container could an everything.
Arthur turned to William, watching him closely.
The look in the kid's eyes said it all.
Whatever had been stolen—it was important.
And it was worth retrieving.
But what exactly had been taken from him?
–-------------------------------
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