Chapter 1: My Life in the Mox
The bass shook the walls of Lizzie's Bar like a living thing, a low-frequency thrum that wrapped around the neon haze and sweat-drenched air. Pink and crimson lights pulsed across the dance floor in jagged patterns, flashing off chrome implants and synth-skin. Dozens of bodies moved, some in sync with the music, others twitching in their own chaotic rhythms.
Upstairs, laughter mixed with the moans of pleasure and the static buzz of braindance rigs. Customers sprawled across sunken couches, chrome visors locked tight over their eyes. Their mouths hung open, drool trailing down their chins as their hands twitched through invisible illusions. The scent of cheap liquor, perfume, and disinfectant fought for dominance.
This was Lizzie's: home to the Mox, haven for the girls, and, for me—Adrian—home for the last five years.
But right now, I wasn't up there in the neon storm. I was in the basement, in the dark.
The storage room trembled with every bass drop. A metal crate on the top shelf rattled loose, edging closer and closer to disaster until—
Bang!
The crate toppled, slamming straight into my forehead as I dozed on a cot below. I let out a grunt, half-awake, but before I could sit up, a black baseball bat blurred into view. It cracked against the crate, smashing it against the wall with a heavy thunk. The box crumpled, spilling a rain of dust and spare chrome bits.
The bat withdrew. The figure holding it stepped into the doorway, voice sharp.
"Adrian, how much longer are you planning to sleep? It's time to work."
I groaned, rubbing my temples. My eyes stung as I blinked against the dim light. The only glow came from a weak wall switch, casting just enough to silhouette the figure blocking the corridor behind her.
Didn't need to guess. Nobody else came looking for me down here.
"Work?" I yawned, dragging a hand across my face. "Susan told me to lay low, remember? Stay out of the Mox's way. What kind of work could there possibly be?"
The figure stepped into the light.
Pink hair, tied into twin buns. Bangs that cascaded past her cheeks like candy-colored silk. Her skin looked like porcelain, flawless yet not entirely human—faint seams ran down the bridge of her nose, subtle enough to make her beauty uncanny.
Rita Wheeler. Security at Lizzie's. Enforcer for the Mox. And my so-called babysitter.
She wore a shredded white tee that showed more than it covered, layered under a cropped black jacket and tight leather pants. Her arms swung casually, the black bat spinning as if it were a natural extension of her body.
She fixed me with a look caught between irritation and amusement.
"Cut the whining. I don't give a damn what Susan said to you. This came from Aunt Korna. She wants you upstairs. You can ignore Susan's temper, sure, but are you seriously going to ignore Korna?"
I tied my black hair back into a bun, exposing my face in the pale glow. My cheekbones were clean, implant-free. No metal scars on my cheeks, no dermal plating under my skin. But when I turned my head, the faint groove behind my left ear glinted—a reminder that even I wasn't entirely stock.
My eyes flickered, irises flashing a faint yellow as they synced with my internal HUD.
"…Korna's here?" I asked, my voice suddenly sharper.
Rita smirked. "Yeah. Right upstairs. You don't believe me, go ask her yourself."
I froze. "…Why's she here?"
"Why do you think?" Rita shrugged, bat resting on her shoulder. "Came to see you. Don't shoot the messenger. I'm not the boss."
I leaned back on the cot, stretching lazily. "Susan told me the Tiger Claws are sniffing around. If I go up now, I'll drag trouble right into Lizzie's. Doesn't that screw you over?"
"This is our turf, Adrian. Ours," Rita snapped.
I curled my lip. "That's not what Susan said. She made it pretty damn clear I wasn't one of you."
Rita sighed, rubbing her temple. "You really don't get Susan, do you? That woman spits acid when she's pissed, but it's bark more than bite. You crossed a line, sure, but she doesn't actually want you gone."
Her bat dropped to her side. For once, her voice softened.
"You did it to protect Shanna. Everyone knows that. Susan knows it too. But listen—Mox can't go toe-to-toe with the Tiger Claws. We don't have the numbers, or the firepower. We live in the cracks, Adrian. One wrong move, and they'll crush us."
She stepped closer, fingers brushing through my hair before I could flinch. Her hand rested on my head, gentle in contrast to her usual steel.
"You could've left years ago," she murmured. "Found work as a merc, or even a corpo's dog. But you stayed. For us. For Korna. You're stronger than you know, Adrian. But the Claws? They're worse than you realize. Susan's not pushing you away—she's protecting you. Otherwise, why would she keep you here?"
I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch for just a moment. I understood. I just didn't want to.
Because Shanna wasn't just some doll. Sure, she had synth-skin and programmed expressions. To the world, she was disposable. But to me? She'd been my first friend in this hellhole. She looked after me when I was nobody, just another lost kid dragged in by Korna.
When the Tiger Claws tried to tear her apart, I couldn't stand back. I didn't care what it cost.
"Fuck Night City," I muttered. "Fuck the Tiger Claws."
Rita's lips curled faintly. She knew me too well. For me, swearing wasn't rage—it was acceptance, the moment I stopped fighting my own frustration.
"You saved her," she reminded me softly. "You wrecked those bastards. And those chrome scraps you dragged back? Susan sold them. Every eddy went into your stash. Don't pretend she doesn't care."
Her arm wrapped around me briefly, leather brushing against my cheek. Then she stepped back, slipping her bat back into place.
"Alright, little bodyguard. Time to work. Susan's watching, but she didn't say a word when I came down here. That's her way of saying yes. You get it?"
I nodded. "Fine. I'll change."
"Good. Hurry. I've got idiots outside who think Lizzie's is an open playground."
With that, she vanished back into the neon-lit corridor.
I exhaled slowly, then whispered:
"Open task panel."
A holographic screen bloomed into my vision, black and red code wrapping around itself like living graffiti.
> [Do you accept task: (Security) from Rita Wheeler?]
[Accept / Reject]
I tapped accept.
> [Task Accepted: Security]
Danger Level: None
Objective: Guard Lizzie's Bar from intruders tonight.
Reward: +0.05 to a random attribute.
The panel shifted, data flickering across my vision:
Name: Adrian
Physical Strength: 9.05
Reflexes: 8.06
Skills: 9.02
Intelligence: 4.1
Composure: 8.2
I clenched my fist. My body wasn't dripping with chrome. Just a few mods. But my raw stats were climbing higher than most juiced-up mercs. The average street rat sat around 3 in Strength. I was hitting 9—strong enough to rip alloy doors apart with bare hands.
The irony? Mox couldn't afford to invest in me. Too broke, too stretched thin. But thanks to this system—this strange RPG panel embedded in my reality—I was grinding my way up, day by day.
I slipped on my bomber jacket, boots thudding against the concrete floor as I stood. My reflection flickered against a cracked mirror by the door.
Five years. That's how long it had been since the accident. One moment, headlights blinding me. The next, the roar of a truck horn. And then—this. Not my world anymore. Not the streets I knew.
Instead, Night City.
Cyberpunk 2077. The game I'd once played, now made flesh.
A city of chrome and blood.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Merciless.
I pulled my collar high and stepped out into the corridor, the neon glow painting me in electric blue and crimson.
Bartender. Waiter. Security. Merc-for-hire when needed. That was my life in the Mox.
And tonight, it was just beginning again.