Night City was a miracle and a graveyard at the same time.
Skyscrapers pierced the clouds like metallic spears, glowing with holographic ads and neon promises. From a distance, it looked like the future—bright, clean, unstoppable.
Up close, it smelled like rust, oil, and blood.
This city could fulfill dreams. It could also crush them before sunrise.
Every year, countless young people arrived here full of hope. They believed they would become mercenaries, netrunners, fixers, legends. They believed their names would echo through Afterlife.
Most of them never lasted a week.
If Bain hadn't met Arthur Vale, he would likely have ended up the same way—either dead in some forgotten alley or strapped to a metal chair inside a Scavenger hideout, stripped for parts. In Night City, even death could be profitable.
Sometimes the unlucky ones didn't even get a grave. They disappeared into factories, processing plants, or corporate waste systems. Their existence erased like corrupted data.
That was the law of survival here.
If you had a dream, anything was possible.
Including dying for it.
Arthur knew this now more than ever.
As a so-called "kind-hearted" ripperdoc, he could only take in a limited number of homeless people. Destiny Church wasn't a corporation. It didn't have sponsors. It barely had funds.
Those they couldn't save often ended up signing contracts they couldn't even read. Corporate employment agreements. Debt contracts. Indentured labor disguised as opportunity.
Some of them would even beg to be exploited—because exploitation meant survival.
In Night City, not everyone had the privilege to choose how they suffered.
Just like the city had brilliant neon lights, it also had corners that no light ever reached.
Arthur stood in one of those corners now.
The alley outside their headquarters—Puff Bar—was broken and damp. Trash bags leaned against cracked concrete walls. Old holo-ads flickered weakly above.
But when he stepped inside, the contrast surprised him.
It was clean.
Not luxurious. Not comfortable. But clean. Someone wiped the tables daily. The floor was swept. The bar counter shined under dim lights.
It meant something.
It meant they cared.
A few minutes later, Arthur devoured the food Bain placed in front of him. He hadn't eaten properly for over fifteen hours since waking up in this world. Hunger hit harder when you knew death was always nearby.
It was still morning. The rest of the members hadn't returned yet.
Only the two of them sat inside the quiet tavern.
Arthur leaned back and rubbed his stomach.
"Bain," he said casually, "do you know any powerful netrunners around here?"
He asked before Bain could speak.
Back in the game, Arthur preferred hacker builds. Sandevistan was flashy. Berserker builds were brutal. But hacking? That was elegant.
One glare.
A few quickhacks.
An entire enemy group collapsing without knowing what hit them.
Efficient. Clean. Beautiful.
"A netrunner?" Bain frowned. "A powerful one?"
"Yeah."
"Brother Arthur… that's not something a street guy like me can access. If you want a real netrunner, you'd need a fixer. Or a middleman. Those people don't take random calls."
Arthur nodded slowly while chewing.
So that's reality, he thought. In the game, I wiped out netrunners daily. Here, they're out of reach.
"Last night the NCPD questioned me for hours," Arthur added casually. "I think my brain might've picked up some malware. I want a professional to check."
Bain nodded, though confusion flickered in his eyes. It was the first time he'd heard of a ripperdoc needing a netrunner's help.
"By the way, Brother Arthur," Bain suddenly said, "I found what you asked me to get."
Arthur paused mid-bite.
"Bring it."
Bain jogged behind the counter and returned with a sealed metal case.
"What is this?" Arthur asked.
"Succubus Type II Fully Automatic Juicer."
Arthur nearly choked.
"…What?"
Bain quickly clarified, "It's cyberware. Isa ordered it. She works here. Couldn't afford a new one, so I found a secondhand unit. Good condition."
Arthur nodded slowly.
Right.
Destiny Church didn't just shelter people.
It operated Puff Bar.
Which meant—
He wasn't just a leader.
He was also running a small brothel.
He stared at the metal case in silence for a moment before waving Bain off.
"Leave it."
Soon, more people returned.
The entire Destiny Church had seventeen members, including Bain. Men and women. Some former homeless. Some saved from Scavenger hideouts. Some who simply had nowhere else to go.
A few newly rescued individuals followed behind, hesitant but hopeful.
If Arthur didn't know better, he would've mistaken them for nomads gathering around a dying campfire.
He stood up.
The tavern quieted immediately.
Arthur took a deep breath.
"Bain," he said seriously, "I need your help with something important."
Bain stiffened.
"Brother Arthur, you saved my life. Even if I have to walk through fire, I'll do it."
Arthur looked around at everyone.
"In Night City," he asked slowly, "do you want to be famous… or remain nameless?"
Silence fell.
The air felt heavy.
Then something changed.
Bain's veins bulged slightly. His fists clenched.
"I want to be famous!" he shouted suddenly. "I want my name known across the world!"
The others erupted.
"Famous!"
"Make our names known!"
"Let Night City remember us!"
Their voices filled the small tavern like a rising storm.
Arthur watched them calmly.
He raised a hand.
"Good," he said.
"Then from today onward—Bain will be the Leader of Destiny Church."
The room froze.
Bain slammed his hands onto the table and stood up.
"No! That's impossible!"
Arthur tilted his head.
"Didn't you say you'd do anything I ask?"
"But this isn't right!"
Arthur's expression softened slightly.
"I'm not leaving. But you want fame. I don't."
He paused.
"I prefer to remain unknown."
That wasn't entirely true.
But it was close enough.
"I'll still guide you. I'll help you rise. But your face will stand in front. Your name will carry Destiny Church."
He glanced at the others.
"It's decided."
He waved dismissively.
"Everyone back to work."
Then he turned to Bain.
"Come with me."
---
They stepped outside and walked a short distance to a nearby workshop.
Arthur's clinic.
The place where cyberware was installed.
The place where Crow had been rebuilt.
Inside, parts were scattered everywhere. Tools lay unorganized. A metal operating table stood in the center under harsh lighting.
Medical instruments rested nearby.
Arthur's heart sank slightly.
Even with his physics background, understanding these complex implants without guidance would be extremely difficult.
System, he thought silently. You said you loaded. Where are you now?
No response.
He forced a calm expression.
"I'm taking a break for a couple of days," he told Bain. "You're the leader now. Take care of everyone."
"Brother Arthur… I can't—"
"You can."
Arthur closed the door before Bain could protest further.
Now he was alone.
He leaned back into an old leather recliner.
Silence.
Finally.
"Damn…" he muttered. "Peace at last."
Being a charismatic underground leader required acting skills he didn't have. Assign professionals to professional tasks—that was the smartest choice.
Now—
It was time to study the system.
He needed power.
He needed leverage.
He needed to survive.
And maybe—
If fate allowed—
He might even find traces of Maine's crew someday.
Maine.
Sasha.
David Martinez.
Their stories were tragic, carved into Night City's history through Cyberpunk: Edgerunners.
And then there was Adam Smasher.
The walking nightmare.
The final boss of legends.
Arthur activated his neural interface.
Blue light flickered in his eyes.
He checked his account balance.
3200 eurodollars.
He couldn't help laughing.
"What can you even do with this?"
He imagined making a call.
"Hey, V," he muttered sarcastically, referencing the merc who shook the world in Cyberpunk 2077. "I need a small favor. Kill Adam Smasher. I'll pay you 2500."
He snorted.
"Make it 3000. Blow up Arasaka Tower while you're at it."
Reality was cruel.
3200 eddies wouldn't even hire a top merc for an afternoon.
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
If he wanted to survive in Night City—
He couldn't rely on V.
He couldn't rely on legends.
He had to become something else.
Nameless.
Hidden.
Growing in the shadows.
And when the time came—
Strike.