Jax jumped, spinning his chair. It was Kael, a freelance netrunner who shared the floor space. Kael’s skin was a patchwork of chrome and scar tissue. "Hienzo’s legit. Mostly. Just gotta watch for the backdoors they leave in the code." Jax turned back to the screen. He clicked.

"That's not a game, kid," Kael said, his voice dropping an octave into something synthesized and cold. "That’s a beacon."

The door kicked open, and the room was flooded with the red lasers of tactical teams. Jax didn't get to play the game that night. He was already living it.

"Kael?" Jax whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.

But Kael wasn't looking at him. The netrunner was staring at his own mechanical hands, which were twitching in sync with the scrolling text on the screen.

A heavy thud echoed from the hallway. Then the sound of a thermal charge melting the door lock. The download hadn't been a gift from a pirate site; it was a tracking virus sent by the Arasaka Corporation to find the two thieves who had stolen a prototype chip three nights ago.

When the bar finally hit 100%, the screen didn't launch the game. Instead, the monitor bled into a deep, pulsing crimson. Text began to scroll—not game dialogue, but Jax’s own personal data. His bank account (empty), his medical records (failing), and his exact GPS coordinates.

In Night City, nothing was ever actually free. Jax knew this. He lived in the gutters of the Watson district, scavenging circuit boards just to keep his own cybernetic eyes from glitching out. But the hype for the game had reached a fever pitch, and his credits were bone dry. "Do it," a voice rasped from the shadows.