Night fell. Neon lights blazed brilliantly.
At 12:07 AM, Miss Vera finished her day's work.
Hum... hum...
A Rayfield Excalibur aerodyne slowly emerged from the landing pad inside the dark tower.
Its surface gleamed with a special paint reserved for the latest supercar models—dark-toned, radar-absorbent, capable of a certain 'stealth' effect while remaining translucent and muted. Understated, yet undeniably luxurious.
Black base, white patterning, featuring the aRaSaKa logo and Arasaka's three-leaf clover emblem.
That alone granted her near-unrestricted passage through Night City—no inspections, no questions.
Inside, Vera had removed her jacket and was leaning back against the cushions, examining the ID card, purchase certificate, and thank-you letter tucked into a retro-style, gold-plated cardboard box. The magnetic card looked almost identical to a Trauma Team platinum membership.
"Internal discount. Not too expensive."
Only slightly more than the €225,000 price tag of a Villefort Alvarado V4F 570 Delegate.
With aerodynes, the real cost wasn't the price—it was the access. The class.
Arasaka—or any megacorp, really—ran on hierarchy. Your rank dictated your wardrobe, your transport, your life. Male or female, everyone dressed and moved according to their position.
...
After a few seconds, her interest faded. Vera tossed the box aside, propped her elbow on the armrest, and stared blankly out the window at the rapidly retreating lights, her chin resting on one hand.
Her first aerodyne—acquired.
But it didn't feel like much of a victory.
Even though she'd once wanted one so badly…
Through privacy-tinted glass, her indigo eyes gazed down at the world below.
...
South of the Civic Center was Heywood—Valentino turf. A district of contrasts. Up north, modern towers and parks. Down south, a slum of low-rise buildings, tangled streets, and crumbling apartment blocks stacked like cardboard boxes on the verge of collapse.
This was the first time she'd truly looked down at Night City from above.
In the past, she'd either lived in an ivory tower, been buried in coursework at Arasaka Academy, or been deployed around the world on corporate missions. The cars she rode never took this commuter route, and during flights in armored aerodynes, there'd never been time—or opportunity—for sightseeing.
Now, flying east toward Westbrook, Vera had a rare, unobstructed view of the nightscape below—Heywood, parts of the Glen, and Santo Domingo all stretched out beneath her.
Her cyberoptic implants, equivalent to high-powered scopes, gave her a clearer look:
In an open lot near the park, under dim streetlights, homeless people huddled around barrel fires, their faces flickering in the flames.
In alleyways between buildings, ragged children chased each other near rusted-out cars.
In the shifting shadows of garbage piles, addicts and drunks gathered—a den of desperation.
...
All of it flickered across her vision in an instant.
Where's my curiosity?
When did my compassion become so thin?
Vera asked herself.
Suddenly, her eyes widened.
At some point, she'd stopped caring about the true face of cyberpunk society.
Through mission after mission, and all the lies she'd told herself—"It's just company business," "Orders are orders," "I didn't want to kill them," "They had it coming," "That's how you climb the ladder," "Everyone does it," "They were criminals anyway"…
Had she really lost all empathy?
She'd once been curious about street life, but fear—and her birth parents' meddling—had buried that curiosity.
During her first internship assignment in San Francisco, she'd still felt something—pity for the people she passed, discomfort under the stares of civilians, even guilt.
Vera unconsciously opened her hands.
Corporate dog hands.
Pale and smooth from euro-maintenance, delicate as summer leaves, fingers slender and full, joints like carved jade. Fingertips gleamed with a polished luster.
Right now, they looked filthy to her. Ugly. Drenched in blood.
"The blood on one's hands can never be washed clean."
She murmured the words silently.
Then closed her hands, shut her eyes, and let the soft music from the car's intelligent system fill the silence—a stark contrast to the chaos of the city streets.
After a long pause, she opened her eyes again.
She didn't regret what she'd done. Or who she'd become.
A life on the edge, never knowing if tomorrow would come, dying in some back alley—that wasn't for her.
She just needed to remember: going with the flow didn't mean becoming the worst version of herself. She could still be a better corporate dog. A little more moderate. A little more responsible. A little more human.
Vera chuckled softly.
"Three years."
2074 to 2077.
Three years to rise to the top of Arasaka's Night City division, or at least join the inner circle with real military authority. Then, wait quietly for the Arasaka family's inevitable shakeup. That was her real concern.
Going against the tide? Becoming a legend?
That was never her path.
After all, in Night City, legends always ended up in graveyards.
...
Hum...
The aerodyne cruised silently through the sky, thrusters glowing a soft blue.
Vera's ride flew over Heywood—those dark, noisy, deathly quiet places—past contemptuous, fearful, hateful, envious gazes from below, and reached the corporate enclave in Westbrook.
House No. 414. The Russell family's private landing pad.
The family had once held aerodyne privileges. Now, they were simply reinstating them.
Hiss.
A red targeting line projected downward, marking the landing spot. The aerodyne descended smoothly. The door slid open. Vera stepped out and reached for the rear entrance.
[Biometric information confirmed.]
The door opened. Lights flickered on.
As soon as she entered, she tossed her jacket and briefcase onto the sofa, grabbed the tablet from the coffee table, connected to the local network, and collapsed onto the couch to browse the marketplace.
Home security services.
With her characteristic persecution complex, Vera decided it was time to upgrade the family's rear landing pad—and bolster the security system to improve her peace of mind.
The stock Excalibur aerodyne wouldn't cut it. She'd already contacted Rayfield to schedule a custom security upgrade—armed drones, defense robots, the works.
Oh, and a bump in her community's domestic service subscription, too.
After all, she — Vera Adelaide Russell — had never lacked for money. Just status.
A certain Miss Vera who'd inherited her deceased executive parents' assets and had no one to provide for but herself.