This was a somewhat cramped apartment, but far better than a pigeonhole. A three-room, one-hall space, with a woman busy in the kitchen whose back was the only thing visible, and a man, with his face obscured, sitting on the balcony partially shadowed by the dense high-rises that blocked out the sunlight. In his tiny home workshop, he was honing a short blade that resembled a handcrafted artwork.
He mixed the powder ground from the whetstone with special honing oil, creating a paste-like polishing compound. Carefully, he smeared the compound along the grain pattern on the blade.
A red-haired child squatted nearby, watching intently. The man, his face bathed in the warm light, smiled and said,
"Pay close attention, Shiro. This is the craftsmanship passed down in our family. Possessing this blade-forging skill will ensure that you never go hungry in Night City. Who knows—maybe you'll even earn some tuition for your own son one day."
