Chapter 4 — "Simple and Honest Folk Customs"
"Good morning, Night City!"
"Yesterday's Dead Man's Lottery had thirty lucky winners!"
"Ten gang members died during the draw — including a guy from Heywood — but hey, one NCPD officer also died, so someone's paying compensation today!"
Louder than the reporter's voice was the endless roar of hovercars outside the window.
On the bed, Rox twitched his numb fingertips, waking up to the chaos of another day in Dogtown.
Compared to the abandoned buildings elsewhere, this small apartment was considered luxury.
He sat up, his body still aching, memories of the original Rox mixing with his own. Everything felt familiar yet foreign.
"Heh… Morning, Night City. No—Morning, Dogtown."
He stretched his cybernetic arm, grabbed a cold golden taco from the table, and didn't relax until his system showed all physical readings back to normal.
His phone buzzed.
Otto's exaggerated face filled the screen.
"You brat — you inhaled three cans of my Power Tonic yesterday! I swear, save money and upgrade your damn antique prosthetics before they fall apart on you."
Rox nodded. Otto was right, but he was also obviously high on glitter and rambling.
"Relax, I'm not here to collect debt. If you're free, get to the checkpoint camp. Hansen said the guns need to be returned to our soldiers."
"And remember the Colonel's matter — don't screw it up."
"Sorry bro — when this is over, drinks on me!"
Otto hung up.
Rox stared at the blank screen. Yesterday, Hansen ordered him to go to Dogtown's famous hotspot — the Heartbreak Club — to meet someone.
A shadowy figure surfaced in his memory.
A hoarse voice. Sunglasses. A half-hidden face.
"…Hanz? The Pacifica fixer?"
It was 2075. Rox didn't know if Hanz had already become the notorious broker he'd later be famous as. If it wasn't him… negotiating would be much harder.
Still, the system gave him one advantage — he knew people's personalities and future reputations.
Fixers were the backbone of Night City — dangerous middlemen between gangs, corpos, mercs, and legends.
People thought they were parasites. In reality, nothing got done without them.
Rox made his way out of the maze-like apartments, climbing the shaky metal ladder to street level.
In the distance stood the massive Tree of Memories, branches covered in candles. It hit him with déjà vu — just like when he played V, talking to Johnny at that exact tree.
A game once.
Now reality.
What was V doing in this timeline?
Male or female?
Still alive?
He snorted.
A joke to cool down his nerves — he needed it.
His phone buzzed again.
> Incoming Call: Unknown
"Hello, friend. This is Hanz."
Rox's back straightened. It was him.
"The famous Mr. Hanz," Rox replied. "An honor."
The hidden fixer chuckled.
"Rare for Hansen to pick someone with manners. Come to the Heartbreak Club. I gave you extra time because I heard you got pretty busted up yesterday."
"But I won't wait forever. We have business to discuss."
The call ended instantly.
Rox turned toward the broken main street — only for a wad of spit to land at his shoes.
"You fucking Ghost Hound — washed-up already!"
The vendor under the awning spat venom without pause. And Rox remembered:
Yesterday, he was one of Hansen's dogs — oppressing Dogtown's civilians.
Today, everyone could see he'd been kicked out.
Don't panic.
Rox's chrome fingers closed around the man's jaw, lifting his head slightly.
Crowds immediately gathered — some afraid, some excited, some cheering for chaos.
"Hey! Chill, buddy!"
The vendor hadn't expected a discharged soldier to still have a full cybernetic arm. Panic replaced arrogance.
Rox's voice was low and steady:
"Watch your mouth. Whether I'm a hound or not — I'm still right here."
"Behave. Understand?"
He released the man, who nodded violently.
Rox walked away, hands in pockets. The crowd dispersed instantly, muttering curses at the Ghost Hounds under their breath.
Time in the game flew fast.
Reality didn't.
Dogtown was huge — and the road behind the abandoned construction site was long. By the time he reached the camp, Rox was out of breath.
Stupid predecessor — wasting military pay on glitter and gambling instead of buying a beater car…
Inside the checkpoint camp, all activity stopped. Soldiers stared at Rox — he didn't look like one of them anymore, yet the guards had let him in.
A mohawk-haired female soldier tossed Rox's rifle to him, cigarette between her lips.
"Your gun and some of Hansen's money. Call it a bonus."
His account dinged — 1,000 eurodollars.
"How much did you deduct?"
"Three hundred. If you've got a problem, go complain to the Colonel. Now get lost."
Rox didn't move.
"Give it back."
The woman clicked her tongue, ready to start a fight — until a guy beside her blew out glitter smoke.
"Just give it to him, girl. Otto's already—"
"You're impossible."
The rest of the money transferred.
Rox finally asked, "Where's Otto? He said he'd give me equipment."
The male soldier grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the exit.
"Who knows? Maybe he's dead in someone's bed. Anyway, get lost. Don't ask again."
Rox tried calling Otto — no answer.
He sighed and looked toward the Heartbreak Club, its transparent pyramid walls glittering in the sunlight.
Another step into this world.
Maybe the first step toward becoming a legend.
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End of Chapter 4