Cyberpunk Patriarch

Arthur's warning didn't seem to register with either Saul or the Red Ocher survivor. Their eyes remained fixed on Joanne. The tension in the air was thick, their hatred barely restrained.

Joanne, for her part, took a slow, steady breath—so subtle that only Arthur noticed the shift.

Success.

That one word echoed in her mind like a victory bell. The moment she reached the terminal, she could activate the hotel's silent alarm, triggering a full lockdown. The guards would rush in within minutes, well-armed and unmerciful. These three intruders? They were clearly mercs or wanderers—no heavy weapons, no backup, and no hope.

A bunch of wild dogs from the outskirts of Night City, barking loud and biting nothing.

Joanne's thoughts burned with vindication. Fools, she sneered internally. Didn't even frisk me for implants or override access... pathetic.

She wore no visible expression. That, too, was part of her training. Corporate dogs like her were specialists in smiling through chaos. She wore neutrality like a second skin. Even now, she projected helplessness and resignation, playing the part of the remorseful executive.

Arthur watched her quietly, one hand resting on his hip, the other tapping a cigarette out of its box. He said nothing, just observed.

Saul couldn't take the tension any longer. He shoved Joanne forward. "Quit stalling. Move faster!"

Joanne stumbled theatrically, then began her approach to the desk terminal. The survivor trailed closely behind her, gun raised and aimed squarely at the back of her head. His hands trembled, but his grip held firm. One false move, and he'd blow her brains across the foliage.

Joanne's steps were cautious. Calculated.