Cyberpunk Patriarch

Arthur scratched at his scalp as if trying to stir his thoughts into action. The moment was dense with pressure, the air sticky with heat and blood. Following Lucy's lead, he soon arrived at their makeshift hideout.

If it could even be called that.

The building was a wreck. Rubble and broken bricks littered the floor, mingling with busted furniture and garbage bags reeking of mold and rot. The stench in the air was a brutal mix of blood, vomit, and something far worse—urine soaked into old cushions. The place looked like it had been shelled in a war zone, and in a way, it had.

This wasn't a hideout. It was a tomb waiting for a fight to finish the job.

Arthur knew one thing for sure: if it wasn't for the hostage they held—Tanaka, the executive from Arasaka—they'd all be dead by now.

And there, sitting by a dim bonfire fueled with stuffing ripped from the ruined couch he sat on, was none other than Maine. The legendary cyber-merc was staring into the flames with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Arthur strolled up and couldn't resist. "Well, well. If it isn't Mr. Maine, Night City's most jinxed outlaw."

Maine rolled his eyes and gave the chubby corpo rat next to him a hearty slap on the back. "This corporate bastard started it!"

Arthur stepped beside him, eyeing the unconscious Tanaka with mild curiosity. The exec was out cold, probably from something brewed by the Scavs. Whatever it was, it hit harder than most drugs—sniff it, and you're out for three days. Sip it? You're gone for three years. Even Adam Smasher would lose a kidney.

He pulled a cigarette from his jacket, lit up, then tossed the rest of the pack to Maine.

Around the room, the rest of the team didn't look much better. Dorio was injured and out cold. Lucy sat on the ground, clutching her arm, blood seeping through her sleeve. Pyrrha looked unharmed physically, but she sat frozen, like a broken doll. Rebecca, for once, was quiet, staring into the middle distance, probably lost in thought.