By the rotten year of 2077, traditional barbershops were a dying breed.
In Night City, the so-called "salons" were anything but. They didn't just cut hair anymore — they replaced cyber-eyes, reshaped faces, implanted new scalp tissue, and tuned neural ports. Style was a service, but chrome was the business.
Only out here, in the dust-stained Badlands, did real barbershops still exist — places that actually dealt with scissors instead of scalpels.
Neo sat quietly in the chair, staring into the cracked mirror before him.
Behind him, the barber — a talkative, wiry man named Leighton — examined him from every angle, clicking his tongue in approval.
"Man, you've got taste," Leighton said, smirking. "With that face and your vibe? A green mop's gonna make you look sharper than half the Night City celebs. Green really suits you, brother!"
Neo's face was expressionless.
If it weren't for the system's demand to align himself with his role, he wouldn't even dream of dyeing his hair green.
"Cut the chatter," he said flatly. "Just do it."
"Alright, alright, no need to bite."
For all his mouth, Leighton's hands were steady, precise. The brand of the dye was unrecognizable — probably local black market synth-gel — but as he massaged it into Neo's hair, the oily green spread quickly, devouring the black.
[Roleplay Synchronization: 10%]
The system notification chimed in Neo's head.
In an instant, the discomfort and resistance he'd felt earlier vanished. His body felt different — stronger, faster, more attuned to the rhythm of the blade. His reflexes sharpened, and he could feel the ghost of sword forms swirling behind his eyes.
A moment ago, he'd only been stronger than the average merc. Now, Neo realized, he could easily carve through a cyberpsycho armed with implants.
"Leighton, you got a customer?"
A sudden voice came from the door as the barbershop's metal shutter rolled up.
A man stepped inside — a local officer, his presence enough to make Leighton stiffen.
"Officer, he just got here," Leighton stammered. "I thought he already checked in with you."
"Relax, Leighton," the man said with a calm gesture. "We can talk things out."
His gaze shifted from the barber to Neo.
"Sir, I think you understand," the man began, voice cool, "when someone drives into this town, the first thing they're supposed to do isn't get a haircut. It's to come report to me."
"Oh," Neo said calmly. "Didn't know."
Leighton's expression instantly darkened.
This Nomad's insane! he thought. You don't talk back to the cop here!
In these Badland towns, local officers weren't just cops — they were power brokers. On paper, they worked with Night City's corporate enforcers. In reality, they cut deals with every outlaw clan between here and the Border.
Even Mike, the mechanic, watching from outside, felt his stomach twist.
He's dead. He's actually trying to piss off Andrew Jones.
The officer's eyes gleamed with amusement as he stepped closer. "Name's Andrew Jones. Town sheriff. You might've heard of me — silver shotgun, Badlands war vet?"
"Never heard of you," Neo said, standing up, "and not interested."
He paid Leighton for the dye job without another glance at the cop and walked straight out.
Andrew Jones's grin faltered.
Outside, Neo climbed into his car, started the engine, and drove off. But he'd barely gone a few hundred meters before another vehicle roared past, cutting sharply in front of him.
Tires screeched.
Neo braked.
The other car stopped sideways, blocking the road. The door opened, and Andrew Jones climbed out, a pistol dangling loosely from his hand. He strolled over and sat right on Neo's hood, metal creaking under his weight.
"You really don't like talking, do you?" he said, voice turning colder. "When you roll into my town, the first thing you do is check in with me. Not get a haircut. Not grab a drink. Not take a piss. You. Check. In."
He smirked cruelly. "Then again, I shouldn't expect manners from a stray mutt."
His tone hardened, all pretense gone. "Which clan are you from? Where's your camp? How many of you?"
"I work alone," Neo replied.
"Is that so?" Jones slid off the hood, standing in front of the car. "Interesting."
Neo, sitting calmly behind the wheel, didn't even spare him a real look. This kind of small-town bully wasn't worth his time. He had more important things to do — like reaching Night City and finding Jackie Welles.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a small, pager-like communicator, and connected it to his car's antenna. The device crackled, emitting only static.
Jones's eyes narrowed. A pager?
And not just any pager — a heavily modified relic, decades old.
"Stray dog," he said slowly, his voice dropping to a growl. "Do you even know what you're holding?"
Corporate law governed everything now — even communication. Private tech that wasn't approved or licensed by the megacorps was forbidden. Devices like Neo's were contraband.
Jones lifted his gun, smirking. "Illegal tech. You know, I could put a bullet in your head right now and call it a day. Unless…" He rubbed his fingers together, grin widening. "…you make it worth my while."
Neo chuckled softly. "That reminds me." He looked at Jones and said, almost politely, "My antenna's busted. Mind if I borrow yours for a minute?"
Jones froze. Then his face twisted with rage.
There was no going back now.
"Smart mouth," he hissed, raising his gun. "I'm gonna blow your goddamn head off—"
The rest of the sentence never came.
Neo's hand flashed.
Steel whispered.
Shing!
A clean, crystalline sound sliced through the air.
Jones's body froze mid-motion. From the muzzle of his gun downward — gun, hand, wrist, arm, shoulder, neck — everything along that line split apart like cut fabric.
He toppled in two neat halves.
Neo exhaled softly, the gleam of the Nameless Blade fading as he sheathed it.
He'd held back. If he hadn't, that one strike might've sliced through the patrol car behind Jones too.
Stepping out, he retrieved the Wado Ichimonji from the passenger seat, slung them casually at his side, and walked past the corpse without a glance.
He stopped beside the sheriff's car, opened the door, and slid into the driver's seat.
Leather seats. Polished chrome console. Smooth steering.
Neo ran his hand along the interior, smirking.
"Yeah," he murmured. "This feels more like it."
The engine purred to life — low, powerful, and full of promise.
Outside, the Badlands wind howled. Inside, a green-haired swordsman smiled.
Night City awaited.