Surviving in the Night City is not easy. The patter of rain under the neon signs always carries a sour smell. The gunshots of street gangs are more effective than alarm clocks. The security personnel of the company's fleet use bullets to express polite greetings. The cybermaniacs deep in the alley are chewing synthetic meat skewers while scanning your spine model with artificial eyes. Rangers defend tents in the dump with shotguns and Molotov cocktails, while company dogs sit in float cars and look down on the decaying paradise through bulletproof glass.
You can never tell who is more dangerous, the black Mewtwo dealer or the prosthetic doctor. After all, the former may burn out your brain nerves when you take off your pants and plan to have sex, while the latter may "accidentally" install a positioning chip in your spleen.
But there are always people flocking here one after another, like moths flying towards the blazing flame. They say that Night City only eats bones and never spits out the dregs, but no one tells you that the sharpest teeth often grow in your own body. Only when your right hand pulls the trigger before your brain does, you will understand what it means to truly have no way out.
