The day I started seeing the world for the scripted farce it was, I was sitting in my cubicle at NeuroTech Dynamics, staring at a screen that promised productivity but delivered only existential dread. I remember thinking, 'This is it, the pinnacle of my non-existent career.' That's when the data shadows first appeared, dancing at the edges of my vision like digital phantoms. You see, I'm not your average disillusioned corporate drone. I'm that, plus a man who recently had his brain tinkered with—a CogniSync Processor they called it. Supposed to make me smarter, faster, a veritable god of sales data analysis. Instead, here I am, still boring me.

Or so I thought. These 'data shadows,' as I affectionately dubbed them, weren't your run-of-the-mill visual glitches. No, they were more like subtitles to a life I was beginning to suspect wasn't entirely my own. Imagine reading a footnote on your life saying, 'This character will now experience an existential crisis.' It's disconcerting, to say the least. And before you ask, yes, I know how it sounds. Guy gets a brain implant, starts seeing weird stuff, obviously, it's a side effect, right? But it wasn't just visual noise or a migraine aura. It was as if someone left their story notes lying around in my neural pathways. I tried telling my boss about it. You can imagine how that went down.

"Ryker," he said, his voice a blend of condescension and faux concern, "maybe you're just stressed. We can't have you glitching out. Why don't you take a few days off?" Glitching out.

He made it sound like I was a faulty piece of hardware, one that could be reset with a good night's sleep and a weekend away from the neon-drenched madness of Night City. So, there I was, a self-aware narrator in a tale that felt increasingly like someone else's bad dream. I couldn't shake the feeling that every step I took was predetermined, every choice an illusion. The more I noticed these data shadows, the more I questioned everything—the nature of my reality, my choices, the authenticity of the world around me. Maybe I was going crazy, or maybe, just maybe, I was the only sane one in a world that had lost its grip on what was real.

If there's one thing you learn quickly in Night City, it's that every day could be your last – in the office, I mean, not just in the usual gunfight-in-the-streets sense. Today, my friends, turned out to be my swan song at NeuroTech Dynamics. And what a glorious day it was! I walked into the office, already aware of the glitch in my brain – that lovely little anomaly I'd been ignoring. Let's call it my secret digital rebellion. I knew something was off, but hey, who was I to question the gifts of a rogue implant?

Marlene Voss, the human embodiment of a system error, was already on the prowl when I arrived. You know the type – sharp suit, sharper tongue, and a heart as warm as a cyborg's handshake. She was the kind of boss who'd fire you for a typo and consider it a moral victory.

"Ryker, in my office. Now!" she barked, her voice cutting through the morning haze like a chainsaw. Ah, music to my ears.

I strolled into her office with the enthusiasm of a man walking the plank. "You wanted to see me, Marlene?" I asked, mustering my best impression of a concerned employee.

"Save it, Ryker. Your performance has been as lackluster as a retro holo-film. Consider this your final logoff from NeuroTech Dynamics," she declared with the dramatic flair of a villain in a cheap detective novel.

I almost wanted to applaud. "Fired? Marlene, you shouldn't have. Really."

Her eyes narrowed. "Clean out your desk. Security will see you out."

So, there I was, packing up my things – a Morgan Blackhand action figure, a mug with a slogan about surviving Mondays, and a photo of me at a company party where I actually looked happy. Good times.

As I dumped my belongings into a cardboard box – the classic exit package – I couldn't help but smirk. Maybe getting fired was the best thing that could happen to me. It's not every day you get a chance to break free and become poor.

I sauntered out of NeuroTech Dynamics, my box of personal effects under one arm, a sense of twisted liberation in my step.

"Goodbye, NeuroTech. Hello, adventure. Or unemployment. Probably both," I muttered to myself as I stepped out into the neon-lit streets of Night City, ready for whatever absurdity came next.

And trust me, absurdity in Night City is as common as a glitch in the system.

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The flickering neon lights of the Kabuki district cast long shadows as I made my solitary way back to my apartment. Kabuki, a place where the high life of Night City rubs shoulders with the underbelly, was where I called home. It was a maze of contradictions, full of promise shit, yes shit and peril in equal measure.

My apartment, squeezed into an aging building, was a cramped space that felt even more confining in light of my recent job loss. No sooner had I slumped onto my worn-out couch than a digital reminder of my impending crisis pinged on my terminal – rent was due, and my bank account was as barren as the Arasaka board's sense of morality.

Just perfect. Jobless, soon to be homeless, and without a plan. A typical Tuesday in Night City.

That's when my phone vibrated. It was a message from Danny, a friend from the days when I was less cynical, if you can believe it. "Drinks at The Broken Gear tonight. My treat," he texted. The Broken Gear – a dive bar in Little China, known for its cheap drinks and cheaper clientele. A fitting place for my current state of affairs.

"Alright, Danny. I'm in," I texted back, the prospect of free booze mildly lifting my spirits.

The Broken Gear was alive with the usual low buzz of desperation and escapism when I walked in. Danny was perched at the bar, his ever-present smile in stark contrast to the bar's dim lighting.

"Ryker, you look like you've been chewed up by the corporate machine and spat out," he joked, handing me a drink that looked like it could double as engine degreaser.

"Thanks, Danny. You always know how to cheer a guy up," I replied dryly, taking a cautious sip.

The clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversations filled the air as Danny and I settled into the rhythm of the night. The Broken Gear was a sanctuary for souls looking to drown their sorrows, and tonight, I was one of them.

"So, how's life treating you, Danny?" I asked, taking another swig of the questionable drink in my hand.

"Can't complain, Ryker. Business is good, life is... well, it's life, you know?" Danny replied, his ever-optimistic tone a sharp contrast to my growing cynicism.

"Yeah, life is a real comedian," I muttered, my gaze wandering across the bar. That's when I spotted her – a woman sitting alone on the other side of the bar. Her eyes glowed a soft blue, a telltale sign of high-end cyberware, something exotic and undoubtedly expensive.

For a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps? But then she looked away, disinterested, lost in her own world.

I turned back to Danny, who was now detailing his latest business venture, something about drone photography. "You're really living the dream, aren't you, Danny?" I said, the irony in my voice thick enough to cut with a knife.

He laughed, oblivious to my sarcasm. "You gotta make your own luck in Night City, Ryker. Remember that."

I nodded, taking another long drink. Make your own luck – easy for him to say. I glanced again at the woman with the glowing eyes, but she had disappeared into the crowd.

As the hours slipped by, Danny's stories became more animated, and my responses more sardonic. We were a strange pair – the eternal optimist and the jaded cynic, finding common ground in the bottom of a glass.

"Here's to making our own luck," I toasted, raising my glass in a mock salute.

"To luck and to Night City," Danny replied, clinking his glass against mine.

and... after that I can't remember anything. ANYTHING. Well....

The next thing I remember, the world was a kaleidoscope of neon colors and blurred shapes. Ah, the magic of substance abuse – when reality becomes too tedious, just dial up the hallucinations. Danny, ever the enabler, had offered me something to "enhance" my night. "Why not?" I thought. After all, in for a penny, in for a pound of synthetic brain-altering chemicals.

The bar had transformed into a surreal landscape, and I felt like I was floating through it. That's when I noticed them – codes in the frame of people. Everything was different, more vivid, almost tangible. People snaked around the patrons of the bar, like lines of code that swirling in the air.

Then I saw her again, the woman with the cyberware eyes. Her code was... peculiar. It was more complex, a chaotic symphony of numbers and letters that defied understanding.

"Why so complicated, mystery lady?" I mumbled to myself, or maybe to her. Hard to tell. My sense of discretion had taken a leave of absence.

As I stumbled towards her, a ridiculous thought crossed my mind. "I'm like Morgan Blackhand," I declared to no one in particular. "A solo on a mission."

Except, Morgan Blackhand probably didn't sway on his feet and slur his words. And I doubt he saw digital ghosts. Minor details.

I reached the woman, and our eyes locked. Hers were like deep pools of illuminated code, pulling me in.

"Hey," I said, eloquence having deserted me, "your code... it's different."

She looked at me, her expression unreadable. Was that amusement in her eyes? Or pity?

For a fleeting moment, I felt as if I was on the brink of understanding, of unraveling the mysteries that lay within those illuminated depths. But just as quickly, the clarity began to slip away. My mind, overwhelmed by the encounter, started to falter, like a system overloaded by too much input.

The woman's expression, a mix of enigmatic calm and a hint of something akin to amusement or pity, remained etched in my mind as the world around me started to fade. It was as if she knew something I didn't, a secret that was just beyond my grasp.

As the edges of my vision began to darken, the last thing I saw was her face, a serene yet powerful visage against the backdrop of the digital world. And then, with the abruptness of a system crash, everything went black.