A solemn look spread across Arthur's face—the body he now inhabited was identical to the one he'd had in his past life. His youthful features were pale, but undeniably handsome.
His blue eyes gleamed with light, as if declaring his arrival to this new world.
"Your name's well-known in Night City. I mean, your surname."
Viktor's voice was light, clearly trying to ease the tension.
"Famous in this goddamn city? Can't imagine that's a compliment. Maybe I should change it."
Arthur rolled his shoulders. A relentless weakness seeped from deep within his body, worse than anything he'd felt on death's door. He could barely lift an arm.
"Hah, that's where you're wrong. The man I'm talking about is a legend here.
Plenty of kids follow in his footsteps, desperate to catch even a glimpse of that legend."
Arthur raised his bony arm and gestured at Viktor.
"Hopefully he's not just a walking skeleton, fragile as a matchstick ready to snap."
Viktor shook his head at Arthur's self-mockery, a smile tugging at his lips.
"A legend doesn't look weak. He's a lone wolf—a killer."
"Worshipping a killer... figures. That's Night City for you, a dream-chasing city crawling with Scavs."
"You..."
Viktor looked at Arthur's calm face, half exasperated, half amused.
"You really love to argue. Where'd you pick up that nasty temper?"
The words stirred memories of two men: Dutch, and the father who had sold him to the Scavs.
Dutch no longer mattered. But that bastard who sold him? Arthur had no intention of forgiving him.
And those Scavs? They deserved to be skinned alive.
Arthur Morgan—brought to the brink of death by a pack of vermin.
...
On the edge of the Northside Industrial District in Watson, near the low-rise buildings by the highway overpass, police cars clustered together.
An NCPD squad had surrounded a building, red-and-blue lights flashing across their faces, reflecting the tension in their hearts.
At the center of the cordon, a pot-bellied middle-aged man stared fixedly at the darkened doorway.
He gripped the radio at his collar so hard his knuckles turned white.
Seventh floor. The lobby. A mass of corpses.
This was a Scav stronghold. What the NCPD feared weren't the rats—they feared the one who slaughtered them.
A cyberpsycho. The kind of scum most likely to be found among Scav "corpses."
With their division's tech experts still not on-site, the neural link defenses were basically nonexistent.
To avoid potential hacker attacks, the recon squad had disconnected from the net, relying solely on backup radios to communicate.
The fat sergeant at the door didn't dare radio in. Random static might alert the lunatics inside.
So he waited, silent, enduring the gnawing tension.
"...shhh... kzzzt..."
Static cracked from his shoulder mic, sharpening into a clear male voice.
"Sir! Threat neutralized."
At once, the officers around him let out long breaths, shoulders slumping in relief.
"What's the situation?"
The fat cop pressed down on the mic.
"Sir, no survivors. Not even a single intact piece of meat."
"Goddamn Scavs. Hold the scene. I'm coming with the boys."
Stomping his boots, the fat sergeant marched straight through the laser perimeter.
The field flickered, shifting from green to yellow as if scanning his ID, then back to green.
The NCPD quickly locked down the site. It was routine—they just needed to check the bodies and confirm no VIPs were among them.
As for the killer? Who cared?
Homeless, poor—these mud rats weren't worth anyone's concern.
...
By noon, a teenager approached slowly, head hanging low.
His brown hair stuck up messily, hands shoved in his pockets as he trudged forward.
Until the green barrier stopped him.
He froze, staring at it as though his soul had been pulled away.
Then his head snapped up in panic—
Yes. This was where the hospital had taken his mother.
He bolted forward like a madman, ignoring the flashing red warning lights, clawing his way up the stairs.
"Maybe it's just another shooting... an accident... a suicide.
It can't be the hospital. Mom must've woken up already. She's waiting for me."
"Huff... huff..."
He sprinted up to the seventh floor in one breath. Just around the corner was the hospital's door.
Clutching the railing, he gasped heavily, his neck weighed down as if by a stone.
Finally, he lifted his head.
A green police cordon wrapped around the entrance. Two NCPD officers stood there, smoking.
Something inside him snapped, sharp and brittle. He even forgot how to breathe.
"What happened?"
He rushed to an officer, voice trembling.
"My mom's still inside—she's being treated."
The cop frowned, waving him off impatiently.
"Treatment? Shit, even ghosts would get ripped apart in there.
This is a Scav base. Everyone inside's dead."
The words struck him like a hammer blow.
A deafening roar filled his world. The officer's mouth moved, but he couldn't hear anything anymore.
He had abandoned his injured mother... in a Scav nest.
Those corpse-feeding dogs—he had handed her to them himself.
Darkness closed in, and he collapsed.
...
When he finally stirred, voices reached him from far away.
"Sir, the kid's awake."
"Good. Tell him to find his mom's body himself. Fuck that place—whoever wants to deal with it can."
Footsteps approached, and someone slapped his face.
"Hey! Kid!
If your mom's in there, find her yourself.
Wake up, brat!"
"Are there really no survivors? My mom was sent here just two days ago."
He asked, still clinging to hope.
"Quit wasting time. Alive, dead—how should we know?
But my shift's almost over. Keep dragging your feet and get lost."
The cop grabbed his collar, yanking him to his feet.
The lobby was a wreck. Transport beds lay scattered, though the white sheets covering them were neatly draped.
"There. Check yourself. Her belongings's on top, take it if you want."
The officer gestured lazily, pinching his nose before backing out.
The boy moved like a ghost, peeling back the sheets one by one.
One after another—until he reached the far end of the hall.
All the corpses lay exposed.
His mother wasn't among them.
...
Watson District. Little China. A basement clinic tucked inside the chaotic neighborhood.
Viktor set down his tools and nodded for Arthur to step down from the chair.
"Minor dislocation in your wrist, nothing serious.
Aside from possible aftereffects of that unknown drug, you're basically healthy now."
"Thanks, Viktor. I feel much better."
Arthur's strength had returned, though his thin frame still gave him a fragile look.
"Call me Vik. You're my kind of guy, kid. If only you'd watch your mouth more often."
Arthur's new body was barely in his twenties—definitely a kid in Viktor's eyes.
"If you'd give me a few more days to pay, I think you'd like me even more."
He was flat broke, not even sure where his next meal would come from.
"Hah! No problem. Guess you've got no eddies, huh?"
A man fresh out of a Scav den, practically untouched—having money would be absurd.
Arthur rubbed his forehead, lowering his head. His voice, hoarse beyond his years, carried a note of hesitation.
"If possible, I'll need some guidance on surviving here. And... support would be even better."
He was in debt. And he needed his creditor to lend him a hand.