Night City's Channel 54 wasn't like the rest.
While most of the city's feeds had long since drowned themselves in the endless stream of sex, scandals, and synthetic smiles, Channel 54 was still official. The voice of authority in a city that didn't believe in authority anymore.
It didn't sell chaos for clicks. It shaped it.
And right now, it was shaping history.
When Neo switched the TV on, the holographic display flickered to life, the anchor's face appearing under a glowing blue banner:
"SPECIAL REPORT – INCIDENT AT THE AZURE HOTEL."
Host Gillian Jordan sat upright, voice calm, crisp, deliberate. Her tone carried that blend of gravity and poise that only a lifetime of corporate training could forge.
"This is N54 News. I'm Gillian Jordan.
We begin with an official statement regarding the tragic deaths of Arasaka Corporation's external contractor, Adam Smasher, and Arasaka CEO, Saburo Arasaka, following last night's unprecedented assault on the Azure Tower.
We now bring you a pre-recorded address from President Myers."
The screen cut to the familiar seal of the New United States, followed by the steely voice of President Rosalind Myers herself.
"In light of Arasaka Corporation's increasingly hostile rhetoric, both I and the New United States government have felt deep concern.
Let me be absolutely clear—any accusation that Militech or the NUSA government commissioned a team of cyberpunks to assassinate Saburo Arasaka is baseless and laughable.
We have, and will continue to, honor the Alvin Accords in full.
However—should Arasaka continue to pursue this false narrative and threaten our sovereignty, the New United States is fully prepared to respond with decisive force.
In the last war, Saburo Arasaka learned one truth: he was not invincible.
If necessary… we can remind his heirs."
The broadcast cut back to the studio. Gillian Jordan didn't flinch. She looked straight into the camera, expression cool.
"We can only hope that President Myers' unwavering resolve will compel Arasaka to refrain from making further irresponsible and inflammatory statements.
This has been your special report on the Azure Hotel incident. We now return to regular programming. Thank you."
The screen dimmed.
Silence followed.
Johnny Silverhand sat on the edge of Neo's bed, speechless for once.
He wasn't the kind of man who ran out of words easily—but right now, his mind was a storm of disbelief.
N54 wasn't some bootleg streamer throwing fake headlines for eddies. It was the official line. The voice of the system itself.
There was no way they were faking this. No elaborate prank.
Saburo Arasaka—the immortal emperor of corporate greed—was dead.
Adam Smasher—the walking tank that had haunted Johnny's nightmares—was dead.
Both gone.
He remembered it all—the night he'd stormed Arasaka Tower with a portable mini-nuke, the chaos, the screaming alarms, the way he'd believed—just for one insane second—that he could actually end it all.
He'd failed. Smasher had crushed him.
And now, decades later, someone else had finished the job.
That someone was standing right in front of him.
...
For a long time, Johnny didn't speak.
Then, slowly, he laughed.
It wasn't the cocky, brash kind of laugh he used to throw around—it was something deeper. Rougher.
"You're right," he said finally, staring at Neo. "You're not a legend. Calling you one would be an insult. You've gone past it."
He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "We were the fools—'legends,' they called us. Big names, bright lights. Every last one of us wound up in a box courtesy of that chrome bastard Smasher."
Johnny looked at the case on the table. "And you—" He grinned faintly. "You closed the chapter. You finished it."
He gave a thumbs-up. "You're the real deal, choom."
Neo didn't answer right away. He just watched him, taking in the subtle shift—the way Johnny's arrogance had softened into something almost like respect.
For all his flaws, the man still had something that made him impossible to hate.
He could be furious, foolish, infuriatingly loud—and then, in the next breath, heartbreakingly sincere. That was Johnny Silverhand.
A walking contradiction.
A ghost made of rage and charm and regret.
Neo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You calm now, old rockerboy? No more shouting?"
Johnny smirked. "I'm good. For now."
"Good." Neo's tone cooled, growing focused. "Then let's talk business."
He adjusted his seat, his gaze steady and cutting. "You're right about one thing—the Relic Project's been running for over fifty years. Arasaka's refined it far beyond what it was in your day. You, Johnny, were the first working prototype. The first full soul-digitization that didn't instantly fry."
He gestured at the relic chip. "That makes you… vintage. Irreplaceable. For now."
Johnny frowned. "For now?"
"Yeah," Neo said. "Because once Arasaka finishes developing a better version—one with cleaner integration, stronger code stability—you'll just be a dusty file in their archives."
Johnny snorted. "Heh. Guess even death's got an expiration date, huh?"
Neo smiled faintly. "That's why we move now. While you still matter. While the world still thinks you're special."
Johnny leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You're planning something."
Neo's grin widened. "Of course I am. I don't do charity, Johnny. I don't move unless there's profit—or purpose."
He reached out, tapped the relic chip's casing. "And I think we can help each other."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "How, exactly?"
Neo's voice dropped low, deliberate. "I can bring you back."
Johnny froze. "…What?"
"I can't clone your body," Neo continued. "We're nowhere near that level of tech yet. But I can give you a form. A physical projection. One that lets you touch, feel, smoke if you want. Not just data in the air—something real."
Johnny stared at him, jaw slack. "You serious?"
Neo nodded once. "Dead serious."
For a long moment, Johnny just stared. Then a grin broke across his face—crooked, wild, full of the kind of dangerous energy that made him Johnny Silverhand.
"You," he said, laughing under his breath, "you really know how to make a deal sound sexy, you know that?"
Neo smirked. "I try."
"Fine," Johnny said. "You got yourself a deal, choom. I don't care what it costs."
"Good," Neo replied. "I knew you'd say that. Rockstars were never the self-sacrificing type."
Johnny laughed. "Damn right. All that 'die for the people' talk? Total bullshit. If I can live again, I'll pay whatever it takes."
Neo chuckled. "That's what I like to hear."
And just like that—the ghost and the mercenary struck their first pact.
...
When Neo finally stepped out of his room, the day had already slid into noon.
The base was alive with motion and noise—his crew in their element.
Maine and Dorio were sparring, their cybernetic limbs clashing with metallic echoes that rang through the training hall. The pair moved like thunder—both lovers and rivals, feeding off each other's strength.
Pilar was doing what he did best—causing chaos and cracking jokes, the eternal mood-maker. His laughter echoed louder than gunfire.
At a nearby table, David was crouched over a disassembled pistol, Rebecca leaning over him, pointing at its recoil compensator. "No, dumbass—twist it that way or it'll jam mid-fight."
Meanwhile, Lucy was by the terminal, holograms spinning around her as she worked on upgrading the base's security grid.
Neo stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, watching them all.
His crew. His people.
And for just a breath, he smiled.
Because while the world was busy falling apart again, Night's Ember was only getting stronger.