After hearing Arthur's explanation, Victor rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the blue glow of his cybernetic eyes flickering faintly in the dim light.
Finally, he shook his head with a sigh.
The human brain—the final forbidden zone, the one place even the tech-saturated world of Night City hadn't truly conquered.
Even now, despite the hundreds of years of cybernetic advancements, despite turning people into walking tanks, no one had managed to fully unlock the secrets of the human mind.
Victor knew better than anyone:
Miracles in Night City were either scams or accidents.
And somehow, Arthur seemed to be the second.
Victor decided to stop thinking about it. Some things didn't need an explanation—especially not in Night City, where madness was normal and sanity was an anomaly.
He took another deep sip of whiskey, exhaling slowly.
"So," Victor said, setting his glass down with a thud, "what's your plan now?"
"You gonna keep doing the cyberpunk thing? Return to the streets, blow up half the Afterlife with that temper of yours?"
Arthur leaned back on the cracked leather sofa, one arm lazily draped over the backrest.
He grinned, the cigarette between his fingers trailing smoke toward the flickering ceiling light.
"Let's forget about that," he said casually. "The world belongs to the young now. I'm too old to be sprinting across rooftops or dodging bullets in some corpo parking lot."
Arthur took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the cracked ceiling tiles.
"Maybe I'll open a business," he added, smirking.
"Street food. Beef offal noodles, maybe."
Victor stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You do realize..." Victor deadpanned, "there are no cows left in Night City, right?"
Arthur blinked, then scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
Right. He'd forgotten.
In Night City, food was about as real as a politician's promises.
Everything was synthetic—engineered proteins, lab-grown carbs, artificial flavors mimicking long-extinct animals.
There were no cows. No chickens. No eggs.
Hell, half the time there wasn't even real water.
Arthur laughed, a little embarrassed, and took another sip of whiskey to cover it.
As he swirled the drink around in his glass, he suddenly remembered the Suppressor Manufacturing Blueprint the system had given him earlier.
In the chaos of returning to Night City, dealing with Gloria's accident, and pulling David out of his mental nose-dive, he'd almost forgotten he had a literal goldmine sitting in his head.
Suppressors.
Prosthetic inhibitors.
A product everyone in Night City needed—but no one had truly innovated on in years.
Arthur's fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass as ideas began swirling through his mind.
Suppressors were in constant demand.
More chrome meant more rejection. More rejection meant more need for stabilization.
If he could produce his own?
Top-quality, efficient, cheaper than the corpo versions?
He wouldn't just be living comfortably. He'd be printing money.
Of course, the blueprint needed tweaking.
No way a raw system drop would be ready for mass production.
He'd need a good hacker. Someone smart. Trustworthy. Probably someone desperate enough to work cheap.
T-Bug, maybe?
She owed him a favor, after all.
Arthur's mind was already racing ahead when there was a sudden knock on the clinic door.
Victor stood up with a grunt and went to answer it.
A few moments later, he returned, pushing in several plain gray crates stacked on a hover-cart.
Arthur recognized them immediately—prosthetics delivery.
Top-of-the-line civ-grade gear.
It seemed Victor worked fast.
Arthur smiled faintly, then turned his attention to David, who was standing awkwardly near the counter, fiddling with Arthur's old duffle bag.
"Hey," Arthur said, crooking a finger at him. "Come here."
David trudged over like a scolded puppy.
"You ever been to the Afterlife Bar?" Arthur asked with a wicked grin.
David's eyes lit up like Christmas had come early.
"Can you take me there, Dad?!"
Arthur chuckled darkly.
"Oh, my dear son," he said, voice full of mockery.
"If you keep calling me 'Dad' in that tone, I'm gonna put my size 42 boot so far up your a** you'll be chewing leather."
David flinched slightly, instinctively covering his backside.
But after a moment of hesitation—and remembering the repeated bumps on the back of his head earlier—he straightened up and said loudly:
"Dad!"
Arthur gave a satisfied nod.
"Much better."
He poured himself another glass of whiskey and leaned back lazily, studying David.
"Of course, I can take you," Arthur said, "but it's not what you think."
David tilted his head in confusion.
"I thought the Afterlife was where all the legends of Night City hang out," he said eagerly. "Johnny Silverhand, Rogue, Santiago... they all used to drink there!"
Arthur snorted.
"Yeah, and you know what else hangs out there?"
David shook his head.
"Wolves. Vultures. And dead men walking."
Arthur leaned forward, tapping David's chest with two fingers.
"There are only two kinds of people in the Afterlife. The suckers looking to be legends, and the bastards climbing up over their corpses."
David frowned, his idealistic fantasy starting to crack.
Arthur finished his drink and set the glass down with a clink.
"That place isn't special because it's holy," he said.
"It's special because it's built inside an old morgue. Literally. The place smells like formaldehyde and desperation."
David looked slightly sick.
"And Johnny Silverhand's favorite drink?" Arthur continued, grinning wickedly.
"Just tequila, beer, and hot sauce mixed together. Go home and make one yourself. Save yourself the disappointment."
David opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur cut him off.
"Besides," Arthur said, flicking the ash off his cigarette, "you're too young to drink.
Gloria would rip me in half if I let you."
David huffed but said nothing.
Time ticked by in the dim clinic.
Victor worked efficiently, patching Gloria up with the new prosthetics.
Arthur watched quietly, smoking, thinking about his future.
Running around Night City like a rabid dog wasn't an option anymore.
He had a wife.
A kid.
A second shot at life.
The suppressor business... maybe it was crazy.
But crazy ideas were the only kind that worked in Night City.
If he played this right, he wouldn't just survive.
He could build an empire.
One block, one deal, one suppressor at a time.
After some time, Victor pulled off his gloves and wiped his hands on a stained towel.
"All done," he said.
"She'll wake up in about half an hour. She's gonna be sore, but she'll live."
Arthur exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
He stood and walked over to Victor, clapping the old man on the back.
"Thanks, Vic."
Victor grinned.
"Just don't forget to pay your tab, Arthur."
Arthur laughed.
"Put it on my soul debt, same as always."
Arthur slumped back onto the sofa, sipping what was left of his whiskey.
David sat beside him, fidgeting.
"You're really giving up being a merc?" the kid asked after a moment.
Arthur shrugged.
"I already climbed high enough.
What's left? Die gloriously on some sidewalk for a client who won't even remember my name?"
He looked over at David, eyes serious.
"Survival is the real victory in Night City."
David mulled over that, chewing his lip.
Victor slid over a fresh drink, clinking it against Arthur's glass.
"You finally learned that, huh?" Victor said with a small smile.
Arthur chuckled.
"Guess even old dogs can grow up."
They drank in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of Night City's neon life buzzing beyond the walls.
Somewhere outside, a gunfight was probably breaking out.
Another dream was probably dying in an alleyway.
But for now—just for now—Arthur had a family.
A future.
A fight worth winning.
And that was more than most could say in Night City.