Darkness.
It was heavy, suffocating, and endless. But even in the void, Matthew felt the pain. It wasn't sharp or sudden it was dull, gnawing, and relentless, like a predator that refused to let go.
Then came the memories.
The headlights. A blinding flash against the rain-slick road. The deafening screech of tires losing traction. He'd been driving late at night, the rhythmic beat of his wipers fighting against the storm. He'd seen the truck too late a massive eighteen-wheeler jackknifing across the highway.
The steering wheel had been ripped from his hands.
The crunch of metal had been deafening. Airbags exploded, and his car flipped. He remembered a brief, weightless sensation as the world turned upside down. Then the impact—glass shattered, and something heavy crushed his side. His left arm had been pinned, twisted at an impossible angle.
The pain was seared into his memory.
And then… nothing.
Matthew's eyes snapped open, and the world hit him like a tidal wave.
Blinding lights overhead burned his vision, forcing him to squint. The air smelled of antiseptic, machine oil, and something faintly metallic. A low hum rumbled somewhere nearby, punctuated by the faint hiss of pneumatics.
Pain flooded back immediately, dragging him into the present. His shoulder throbbed, his entire left side feeling wrong—numb and heavy, yet somehow aching all at once.
He tried to move, but his body felt sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and unfamiliar sensations. His throat was dry, his tongue sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.
"You're awake," a gravelly voice announced, cutting through the haze.
Matthew turned his head, wincing as the motion sent a twinge of pain down his neck. A man sat nearby, perched on a battered stool. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a solid build and a face weathered by years of hard living. His gray hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and glowing cybernetic optics blinked faintly where his eyes should have been.
"Don't try to move too much," the man continued, his tone calm but firm. "Your body's been through hell. You need to rest."
Matthew's gaze darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. The walls were cracked concrete, stained with grease and grime. Medical equipment cluttered the space—monitors, surgical tools, and a few machines he didn't recognize.
"Where…?" His voice cracked, dry and hoarse.
"You're in my clinic," the man replied, leaning back against the wall. "Name's Viktor Vector. Most folks just call me Vik. I'm a ripperdoc." He gestured vaguely toward the room. "This dump is what passes for a hospital in Night City."
Night City.
The words sent a chill through Matthew, his heart skipping a beat. He knew that name. He'd spent hours exploring it behind a screen playing the game, reading the lore, watching the show. But this wasn't a game. This wasn't fiction.
This was real.
A million questions flooded his mind, but one thought rose above the rest: his arm.
Matthew looked down, panic clawing at his chest as he tried to move his left hand but it wasn't there. His arm ended in a stump just below the shoulder, wrapped tightly in bloodstained bandages.
His breathing quickened, the sight sending his mind spiraling.
"Hey, hey," Vik said, his voice cutting through the panic. "I know it's a lot, but you need to calm down. You're lucky to be alive."
Matthew tore his gaze away from his arm, his voice trembling. "What… happened?"
Vik sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I found you outside, lying in the street. Someone dumped you there like trash. Your arm was crushed beyond saving. If I hadn't taken it off, it would've killed you."
The words hit Matthew like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes, trying to process everything. The accident. The pain. Waking up here, in this grimy basement in Night City. None of it made sense.
"How…" he began, but the question died on his lips.
"I don't have answers, kid," Vik said, his tone softening. "People fall through the cracks all the time in this city. Doesn't matter where you came from—what matters is what you do now."
Matthew swallowed hard, his throat dry. "And what if I can't do anything?"
Vik chuckled, a low, bitter sound. "Then you don't last long."
Time passed in a blur. Matthew lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced. He didn't know how he'd ended up here, but one thing was clear: he was on his own.
The sound of clinking tools pulled him from his thoughts. Matthew turned his head, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. Vik was at a workbench, holding something sleek and metallic.
"You're gonna need an arm," Vik said, glancing over his shoulder. "Lucky for you, I've got one that'll do the job."
The prosthetic was beautiful in a terrifying way. Polished chrome with faint gold wiring running through it like veins. It looked too advanced to be standard cyberware, but Matthew wasn't in a position to question it.
Vik set the arm down and turned to face Matthew. "This ain't charity, kid. I don't work for free. But I could use an assistant. Someone to help out around the clinic, keep things running. You got steady hands?"
Matthew hesitated, his mind racing. He didn't have a choice—not really. He had no money, no contacts, and no idea how to survive in this world.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I think so."
Vik nodded. "Good enough. You work for me, I'll call it even."
He picked up the prosthetic, holding it up for Matthew to see. "Now hold still. This is gonna hurt like hell."
The procedure was agony.
Even with anesthetics, Matthew felt every jolt and tug as Vik attached the prosthetic to his shoulder. The wiring, the neural interface—it was like his body was being torn apart and stitched back together at the same time.
But when it was over, and the pain finally faded to a dull throb, Matthew stared at his new arm in awe.
It was sleek, almost elegant, a perfect blend of form and function. The fingers moved with a thought, each joint responding as if it had always been a part of him.
"Not bad, huh?" Vik said, leaning back against the workbench. "Told you I do good work."
Matthew flexed his fingers, marveling at the strength and precision in the cybernetic limb. But as he stared at the polished chrome, a strange sensation tugged at the edge of his mind.
It wasn't a voice, or even a thought—just a faint pull, like an instinct.
Three choices seemed to present themselves, unspoken and unseen, yet somehow undeniable:
1. **Technical Expertise** – A deep understanding of machines and how to repair and optimize them.
2. **The Right Tools** – The ability to improvise and make do with anything at hand.
3. **Loaded Up** – A knack for creating compact, powerful designs capable of fitting anywhere.
Matthew didn't know where the feeling came from, but he didn't question it. He closed his eyes, focusing on the first option.
The knowledge came instantly.
Schematics, techniques, and ideas flooded his mind, overwhelming and exhilarating all at once. He gasped, clutching the edge of the cot as his vision swam.
"You good, kid?" Vik asked, raising an eyebrow.
Matthew took a shaky breath, forcing himself to nod. "Yeah," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "I'm fine."
But as he stared at his new arm, his thoughts racing with possibilities, one thing was clear.
He wasn't just going to survive in Night City.
He was going to build something better.