In the ruthless world of Cyberpunk, prosthetic technology wasn't just common—it was practically a necessity.
There was even an old, dark joke that went around the bars of Night City:
The steel factories don't need to mine anymore. They can just drag a few drunkards off the street and smelt them down.
The steel content in an average Night City resident was often higher than actual iron ore.
As with all products in Night City, prosthetics came in categories—civilian and military, low-grade and high-grade, mass-produced and custom-built.
But bigger and shinier wasn't always better.
There was a saying: "Too much is too little."
The more powerful your prosthetics, the colder you became. You might gain speed, strength, and invulnerability—but lose your soul in the process. Some chrome didn't just replace flesh. It erased humanity.
That's why, Arthur knew, ordinary people stuck to civilian-grade products.
Simple, durable, no frills. Civ-grade implants were engineered not to cause heavy rejection reactions. Sometimes, users didn't even need neural suppressants or immunosuppressants afterward.
As Arthur sat back and watched Victor's old cybernetic eyes flicker blue, ordering parts online, he couldn't help but grimace slightly at the balance flashing on his retina.
It was not looking good.
"By the way," Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck like a guilty teenager, "if the bill comes up a little short... I might need to put it on a tab."
Victor didn't even blink.
Night City never slept—especially its black market vendors—and Victor was already tapping through catalogs faster than most people could blink.
Arthur knew the man had at least six different vendor links open simultaneously, scouring for top-grade civilian prosthetics at a moment's notice.
"If you ever get injured," Arthur said, turning toward David and clapping him on the shoulder, "and you don't want to end up as a bucket of spare parts—run here. Victor's the best ripperdoc in the whole damn city."
Arthur leaned closer, his tone mock-conspiratorial.
"Even if you catch a bullet through the skull, Vic here can patch you up so good you'll be ready to climb Arasaka Tower the next day."
Victor snorted, shaking his head with a crooked grin.
"Listen to this bastard," he said, still focused on his work. "Talking big as always. I'm just a halfway decent medic. You get a real hole in your head, I'll save you the trouble—straight to the crematorium."
Arthur flashed his middle finger. "f**k you, too, old man."
Victor just chuckled and rolled his chair over to a mini-fridge tucked under his desk. He pulled out a dusty bottle of whiskey and two battered glasses.
No one needed to say anything.
Old friends didn't need reasons to drink in Night City.
Victor poured generously into Arthur's glass, but kept his own pour shallow—a doctor's self-discipline, even if it was half-hearted.
Arthur lifted his glass. They clinked together with a hollow clack, the sound lost in the hum of the city's neon glow leaking through the cracked clinic windows.
The whiskey burned its way down Arthur's throat—cheap and full of fire.
Exactly like Night City itself.
As he sipped, Arthur glanced around Victor's clinic.
The place hadn't changed a bit.
Dim neon lights buzzed in the corners. A cracked shadowless lamp swung lazily over the battered surgical chair. Dust hung in the air like invisible spirits.
The whole place looked more like a morgue than a medical facility.
"You know," Arthur said, swirling the whiskey in his glass, "you've been sitting in this dump for over a decade. Ever thought about upgrading?"
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Upgrade? To what?"
Arthur grinned, setting his glass down and throwing his arms wide like he was pitching some grand scheme.
"Picture this: you rent a fancy suite downtown. Fourth floor minimum. Whole floor dedicated to the clinic. Elevator with private access."
"A hanging garden at the entrance. Maybe even a rooftop pool. Get some pure-blood British receptionist with an accent so thick it'll melt the panties off any corpo suit who walks in."
Victor blinked.
Arthur kept going, voice animated.
"First-class lounge chairs! Chromed-out decor! Every patient gets a whiskey while they wait! Burn through the corpos' insurance policies like tissue paper—charge 'em eighteen thousand eddies just for a damn decontamination!"
"Within three years?" Arthur smirked.
"You'll be the richest bastard in Night City. Make the mayor look like a street rat."
Victor just stared at him, slack-jawed.
Then, slowly, he let out a deep belly laugh and nearly spilled his drink.
"You high, kid?" Victor wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
"You planning to sponsor me? Maybe buy me a penthouse while you're at it?"
Arthur grinned. "You'd be working for me, of course. Dead salary. I'll be the handsome boss."
Victor shook his head, amused. "Nah, man. I'm good with this dump. It's small, it's dirty, but it's mine. I don't need all that corpo bullshit."
Arthur chuckled, raising his glass again in a mock toast.
"To shitty clinics and stubborn old men!"
They drank.
After a few minutes, as the buzz started warming his blood, Victor leaned back in his chair, studying Arthur with a more serious expression.
"You really kicked the cyberpsychosis?"
Arthur tilted his head thoughtfully, tapping his glass against his knee.
"Honestly?" He shrugged. "I don't know."
"I never found any miracle drug. Didn't meditate on some mountaintop. Didn't even pray to the Voodoo Boys' AI gods."
"But one day..." He snapped his fingers. "It was just gone."
Victor frowned. "That's... not normal."
Arthur smirked crookedly. "Yeah, well. Maybe God dipped his hand into the shithole and thought he was pulling out gold—only to find he grabbed a piece of turd instead."
Victor chuckled again, shaking his head.
In a world where cyberpsychosis was still considered a death sentence, Arthur's survival bordered on the miraculous—or the absurd.
Some cyberpunks turned to religion. Some to mysticism. Others fried their own brains trying every untested black-market "cure" they could find.
And once in a while, some lunatic stumbled back out of the abyss without explanation.
Maybe Arthur was one of them.
Maybe he was just too stubborn to die.
Either way, Night City didn't care about how you survived.
Only that you did.
While Victor finalized the prosthetic orders for Gloria—top-tier civilian-grade, just like Arthur wanted—Arthur turned toward David.
The kid was still wide-eyed, still absorbing everything.
Arthur walked over, crouched down so they were eye-to-eye.
"You paying attention, kid?"
David nodded cautiously.
Arthur jabbed a finger into his chest.
"Lesson one: in Night City, people won't always die when they're supposed to."
He tapped David's forehead lightly.
"And sometimes, the ones who should die are the ones who live long enough to change everything."
David frowned, confused. "What does that mean?"
Arthur grinned.
"It means don't count anyone out. Not yourself. Not me. Not even your enemies."
He ruffled David's hair, ignoring the boy's look of outrage.
Victor looked over, smiling faintly.
"Spouting wisdom now, Arthur? What's next, philosophy degree?"
Arthur laughed, straightening up.
"Nah. I just got old."
He pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and took a long, slow drag.
Outside the clinic, the neon streets of Night City buzzed with life and death, corruption and dreams.
It was still the same filthy, magnificent hellhole it had always been.
But somehow, Arthur felt like maybe—just maybe—he had a shot this time.
A shot to build something real.
And if not?
Well, he'd go down swinging.
Just like always.