Chapter 7: Gloria
Gloria's gaze snapped toward the man lounging across the room, cigarette dangling from his lips and mischief dancing in his eyes. The same smug grin. The same trench coat—filthy but somehow odorless. There was no mistaking him.
Arthur.
Her husband.
The man who had vanished years ago without a trace, swallowed by Night City's underworld. Rumors said he'd died in a gutter somewhere, a casualty of the chrome chase. But here he was, alive and annoyingly well.
"Arthur, you bastard! How dare you come back?!"
Without hesitation, she lunged at him, fury written across her face.
Arthur didn't move. He just opened his arms and caught her mid-swing, pulling her into a firm embrace.
"Easy now," he murmured.
Her fists pounded his chest, but he barely reacted. His skin, reinforced with steel-threaded dermal plates, made her punches little more than echoes of emotion. But he let her rage anyway. Let her vent years of pain, of abandonment, of struggling alone.
Then, just as she drew back to swing at his face, Arthur tilted his head and kissed her.
Across the room, Victor groaned audibly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. "Unbelievable. Save someone's life, and they turn the clinic into a romance drama."