The second day.
Arthur slowly dragged himself out of bed, his limbs feeling like they were made of lead.
He reached for the folded note left on the bedside table, shoved it into his pocket, and just as he was about to stand—
Boom!
His legs gave out.
If it weren't for the wall, he would've collapsed straight onto the floor.
Jesus.
Even after a moment's rest, his body still felt like he'd been hit by a runaway AV.
Arthur groaned, pulling on his clothes one piece at a time, moving with the grace of a rusted service bot.
This time, he swore to himself, it really wasn't his fault.
Even if you didn't believe in him,
you should at least believe in the strength of corporate cybernetic enhancements.
Arthur had a body that could run nonstop for a day without even feeling tired.
A walking testament to cyberpsycho resilience.
But last night?
Last night was different.
Melissa's prosthetic upgrades were almost as insane as his own.
The bedframe was shredded beyond recognition.
Knife marks, deep gouges from retractable mantis blades — hell, the bottom board looked like it had survived a firefight.
No wonder Arthur felt like he'd been exorcised.
Melissa wasn't just wild; she was a goddamn natural disaster.
Eventually, he staggered down to the hotel lobby.
He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, took a long gulp, and finally had the energy to unfold the note in his pocket.
Scrawled in delicate handwriting was an address, a name, and a number.
Melissa's post-battle trophy.
He was supposed to either call or visit this address — probably to meet someone useful.
Arthur scratched his chin thoughtfully.
Should he bring a gift?
You don't ask someone for help in Night City without bringing something.
And what was the best gift for a corporate worker?
Stimulants.
Real, fresh, grade-A stimulants — the lifeblood of every overworked corpo drone.
Arthur casually tossed the empty water bottle into a trash can, lazily waved toward the counter, and told the front desk clerk to charge it to Melissa's account.
Small revenge.
Bottle of overpriced water? Add it to her tab.
He also sent Melissa a brief message, explaining why he slipped out early.
And, for good measure, he attached a photo — a wonderful snapshot of her last night, calling him "Daddy" while begging for mercy, complete with a few teasing emojis.
Let her wake up to that.
As Arthur walked down the street toward his car, the familiar mechanical voice echoed in his mind:
[Ding~ Congratulations to the host for signing in successfully! Reward: Soil Improvement Technology!]
"...?"
Arthur nearly tripped over his own feet.
Soil improvement technology?
What the hell was he supposed to do with that?! Start a farm? Plant radishes in Night City's radioactive mud?!
He nearly cursed aloud.
But curiosity got the better of him.
Opening up the downloaded data in his brain-computer system, Arthur scrolled through the details.
His eyes widened slightly.
Actually... it wasn't useless.
In fact, in the world of 2076 —
a world ravaged by industrial pollution, acid rain, desertification, and nuclear fallout —
this tech was practically god-tier.
No wonder companies fought tooth and nail to secure habitable land.
There wasn't a square mile of uncontaminated soil left on Earth.
Real food, real vegetables, real crops?
Luxury commodities.
Most of the food now was synthetic trash, and everyone knew it.
Arthur thoughtfully stroked his chin.
Maybe after he finished setting up the suppressor chip business, this soil tech would be his next big move.
Suppressor chips were a good short-term cash cow.
But long-term? Nah.
Sooner or later, the big corps would reverse-engineer it, bypass the patent protections, and release their own versions.
In Night City, loyalty lasted only as long as your intellectual property stayed secret.
The Patent Act of 2076 still protected some inventor rights —
but only if you had money, muscle, and mercenaries to enforce them.
Small fry without corporate backing?
One day you'd be drinking in Afterlife, the next you'd be floating face-down in a sewer.
Arthur knew the game.
He had no intention of being a stepping stone.
Better to pivot early.
And soil restoration tech?
That could make him a goddamn king.
After setting his next business plan in the back of his mind, Arthur wandered into a nearby pharmacy.
A high-end one, too — gleaming clean floors, chrome shelves stacked with colorful boxes, and an entire aisle dedicated to corporate stimulants.
Arthur looked wildly out of place in his street clothes among the neatly dressed suits.
He didn't give a damn.
In Night City, thanks to corporate lobbying, any idiot could buy powerful drugs over the counter —
no prescriptions needed.
It was all about profit.
The more people got hooked, the richer the pharmaceutical companies became.
And stimulants were the bread and butter of the corpo workforce.
Overworked?
Stimulants.
No sleep for 36 hours?
More stimulants.
Heart palpitations?
Take a sedative... and then another stimulant after your nap.
The cycle never ended.
Arthur browsed the shelves, grumbling under his breath at the prices.
"Tch... these are basically robbery with a pretty label."
But he still piled his basket full.
Top-shelf stimulant pills, energy injectors, nootropic enhancers — anything expensive and addictive.
He figured it'd make the perfect greeting gift.
When in Night City, always bribe someone's loyalty the moment you meet them.
Especially if they could be useful.
As Arthur moved toward the register, his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a man near the corner.
Middle-aged.
Blue eyes.
Wearing a clean, pressed suit — the kind of upper management look that screamed "Arasaka middle manager" or "executive fixer's cousin."
Arthur's instincts prickled immediately.
Someone important.
He lowered his gaze and ignored the man, pretending to fumble with a bottle of pills.
Best not to attract attention in places like this.
After paying (and muttering curses under his breath at the price), Arthur stepped outside into the afternoon sun.
He was still scowling when he muttered to himself:
"Damn it... even AI in Night City need stimulants now?"
"What kind of world is this?!"
Behind him, inside the pharmacy,
the blue-eyed man quietly watched Arthur's retreating figure.
A faint, unreadable smile played across his lips.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a slim datapad, and made a quick note.
Target confirmed.
Begin observation.
[End of Chapter 75: Give Me Some Stimulants?]