In truth, there wasn't any "good news" at all.
Everything they had heard so far was just varying degrees of bad.
Because at the end of the day, their mission had one goal: Get the money.
If they couldn't get paid, it didn't matter if they twisted off Michael's head and gifted it to the workers to use as a chamber pot — they'd still have failed.
"Mierda (shit)!" Jack cursed, stomping his foot.
"I sacrificed so much—walking around like this—only for you to tell me the guy might be broke?"
Jack tugged at the hem of his ridiculous little pink dress, his two thick, hairy legs exposed under the skirt.
The sight was... horrifying.
Arthur couldn't take it anymore.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
If he kept looking, he really might vomit.
After taking a moment, Arthur exhaled and said,
"It's not definite he's broke. We need to check it ourselves.
You know how rich bastards are—what they call 'broke' and what we call 'broke' aren't the same thing."
It was true.
Arthur remembered from his old life: when bosses claimed they were "out of money," what they really meant was that the company's money was tied up while their personal bank accounts were still fat.
Public and private?
Only shameless bastards pretended there was a difference.
Hearing this, Jack's spirit returned.
"Yeah, you're right!" Jack said, rallying.
His two pistols snapped up with deadly energy.
The fire in his eyes made it clear—whether Michael had cash or not, Jack was determined to squeeze something valuable out of him.
At worst? Sell him to the Scavs.
Arthur smirked, drawing his own pistol.
He dropped the half-finished bottle of sparkling water and marched toward the basement entrance.
The closer they got, the stronger the stench became.
The chemical odor was so sharp, it burned the inside of Arthur's nostrils.
"One day," Arthur muttered, "I'm gonna become mayor of this hellhole and force every company to install air purifiers and sewage treatment plants."
Even if you got used to it, Night City's air quality was beyond redemption.
Jack shrugged, eyes sweeping the area.
"Yeah? If you ran for mayor, I wouldn't vote for you.
I'm scared you'd make every guy in Night City wear a dress."
Arthur rolled his eyes.
Good grief.
This guy.
"Jack," Arthur said seriously, "let me make this clear.
I'm not a pervert or a lunatic.
Wearing that dress was part of the mission."
Jack snorted.
"Right. That's what they all say."
Arthur sighed heavily.
Clearly, Jack wasn't going to forgive him for the dress anytime soon.
"Look, cyberpunks make sacrifices all the time," Arthur argued.
"Even Maine once ate a plate of shit for money!"
Jack's eyes bulged in horror.
"You serious?!"
Arthur smirked.
"It's a metaphor, you dumbass."
Jack grumbled under his breath as they reached the heavy basement door.
Originally, this entrance should have had top-tier security—scanners, turrets, maybe even a locked-down vault door.
After all, rich folks loved their secret stashes.
But now?
The camera dangled uselessly by a wire.
The turret hung limp from the ceiling, like a drunk passed out at a party.
Jack noticed it too.
He raised his pistols a little higher, on edge.
"Man, even schools in Night City are basically gang hangouts now," Jack muttered.
"Who still studies books?"
Arthur shrugged.
He couldn't argue with that.
Hell, if it weren't for Gloria pushing David into Arasaka Academy, even the dream of education would've been dead by now.
Arthur pressed his shoulder against the basement door, easing it open a crack.
He peeked through, scanning the dim space beyond.
There was no immediate danger—but the sight inside made his skin crawl.
Barrels of unknown chemicals were stacked everywhere, leaking glowing liquids.
The air was practically radioactive with fumes.
From deeper inside came a voice—hoarse, crazed:
"Yes, yes... that's it... almost there..."
"I'm a genius... just wait, I'll be unstoppable soon!"
"No, no! Adjust it—adjust it!"
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
Whoever was in there had clearly lost it.
"Time for introductions," Arthur muttered.
Without hesitation, he kicked the basement door wide open—BANG—slamming it against the wall with a loud crash.
"DON'T MOVE!!" Arthur barked, guns up, laser-focused.
Jack stormed in behind him, dual pistols trained forward.
At this point, a normal person—especially a rich, cowardly type—would freeze, maybe piss their pants, and immediately surrender.
But Night City was never normal.
Michael didn't even flinch.
He stood hunched over a cluttered workbench, fiddling with beakers and vials like they were precious treasures.
He didn't so much as glance their way.
The dim lights cast an eerie glow on his workstation.
Mutant-looking samples were lined up—sliced organs, rat parts, cockroach limbs—and some of the chemical mixtures pulsed faintly with unnatural colors.
The chemical stink was so overwhelming Arthur had to pinch his nose.
Jack's voice, full of disbelief, whispered over the comms:
"Bro... what's wrong with this guy?"
Arthur frowned.
From Michael's manic muttering and dead-eyed focus, there was only one conclusion:
Cyberpsychosis.
Rich or poor, no one was immune.
Michael had gone off the deep end.
Arthur cursed silently.
This job just got a whole lot messier.
[End of Chapter 59: Basement!]