Floating in the void of data codes, I, Ryker, can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, a battered digital avatar, stuck in a cybernetic purgatory, wondering what my next move should be. And let's not forget, I'm practically a puppet in a story that even its writer seems clueless about.

"Hey, dear readers," I address the void, "Looks like we've hit a bit of a snag, huh? According to the stats, we've got 1,955 views, 109 average views, and, oh, a whopping 28 comments. Feels like we're all in suspense about what comes next. So, let's brainstorm, shall we?"

"Option one: I go undercover in Dogtown. Yeah, that'll be a blast. Just picture me, the broken hero, sneaking around, blending in with the local gangs. Who knows, maybe I'll uncover some grand conspiracy. Or, more likely, get my already busted self into deeper trouble."

"Or how about forming alliances with some of the city's finest? I can see it now: Ryker, the cybernetic diplomat, shaking hands with gang leaders, or better yet, cozying up with a rogue AI. I'm sure that won't backfire spectacularly."

"Then there's the virtual reality showdown. You know, because my life wasn't already enough of a digital hellhole. I can take on Pigman in a mind-bending cyber-battle. Sounds like a straight shot to a mental breakdown, but hey, it could make for a good plot twist."

"Rediscovering past connections sounds like a walk down memory lane. Maybe dig up some dirt on Danny or those other ghosts from my past. Revelations and secrets? Sounds like typical daytime TV drama."

"And finally, the pièce de résistance: assaulting the Blackwall. It's like asking me to break into Fort Knox with a toothpick. But sure, let's add 'world-changing hacker' to my resume. Because, why not? At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up as the long-lost heir to a corporate empire or something."

I sigh, the irony in my voice not even masking my frustration. "So, what's it going to be, oh great storyteller? Or are you just as lost in this narrative maze as I am? Anyway, keep those views coming, folks.

This void, it's like being stuck in the worst kind of limbo – all codes and no substance. And to think, I once believed I had some semblance of control over my life.

"Oh, Skaya," I muse with a touch of bitterness, "you were a fleeting glimpse of something genuine, a rare moment of connection in this chaotic narrative. But alas, our story was cut short, leaving me with nothing but echoes of what could have been. A bit of romance in this cyberpunk tragedy? That would've been too much to ask for, right?"

Solange, ah Solange. You were a twist I didn't see coming. I thought we had something, a shared goal, a mutual understanding. But in the end, you led me straight into the Voodoo Boys' trap. Betrayal? Check. Trust issues? Double check.

Hovering in this bizarre expanse of codes, I can't help but let my sarcasm run wild. "Alright, let's talk about the elephant in the room – my so-called 'powers'. Honestly, it feels like the storyteller cranked up the difficulty to 'easy mode' and went wild. I mean, come on, overpowering cybernetic implants, mind-bending capabilities, and now, some mysterious connection to the Blackwall? It's like a bad fanfic where the main character gets every cool power just because. Seriously, who writes this stuff?"

I shake my head, my digital form shimmering with each movement. "And let's not even get started on how this all supposedly fits into the lore of Cyberpunk. Last I checked, I'm not some legendary netrunner or a corpo god. I'm just Ryker, the guy who's apparently been given every hack and cheat code in the book. Talk about breaking the immersion, right?"

With a wry grin, I call out into the void, "Hey, Glitchy Greg, you're my witness here. Am I spitting the truth or what?"

From the nothingness, Glitchy Greg materializes, his digital form as quirky as ever. He gives me a straightforward nod, his expression earnest. "You're right on the money, Ryker. This story's bending the rules like a contortionist at a circus. It's like the writer's just throwing in twists for the heck of it."

I can't help but laugh, despite the absurdity of it all. "Thanks, Greg. At least someone's keeping it real around here. So, dear readers, where do we go from here? Do I embrace these god-mode powers and become the superhero of Night City? Or do we try to steer this runaway train back onto the tracks of Cyberpunk lore?"

With a theatrical shrug, I add, "Who knows, maybe next I'll discover I can teleport or shoot lasers from my eyes. The sky's the limit in this narrative free-for-all. But hey, if you're still following along, kudos to you. You're the real MVPs in this digital rollercoaster."

"Hey, Greg, any idea why I'm floating here like a lost balloon at a kid's party?"

Glitchy Greg, unfazed by the absurdity, just shrugs, his focus seemingly more on the chaotic world outside the window than on my predicament. "Ryker, my man, I stopped trying to make sense of this story a long time ago. But you floating? That's a new one, even for this twisted narrative."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Great, just great. In any reasonable storyline, I'd at least be standing, S.T.A.N.D.I.N.G., on solid ground. Maybe in some swanky Chinese hotel in Arasaka Tower, living the high life in Night City. But no, here I am, floating in the void like some kind of digital ghost."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

I cross my arms, floating with an air of mock dignity. "I mean, seriously, what's next? Am I going to start phasing through walls or teleporting? Maybe I'll discover I can control time or shoot spaghetti out of my fingertips. At this point, nothing would surprise me."

Glitchy Greg chuckles and nods in agreement. "You've got a point, Ryker. This story's been one wild ride from the get-go. Maybe floating is just your new thing. Who knows? Maybe it's a metaphor for how untethered you are from the traditional Cyberpunk lore."

Sighing, I glance around the empty void. "A metaphor, huh? Well, it's a lousy one. But hey, at least it keeps things interesting.

And let's not forget the Scavengers. Their sudden appearance felt like a convenient plot device, a way to escalate the tension. Do I believe they were really there? In this story, who knows what to believe anymore.

This cyberpunk world, it's cruel and unforgiving. Sometimes, I wonder if the words I speak are even my own. As a corporate drone from poor Kabuki, my knowledge of Pacifica or the Badlands should be limited. Yet here I am, spouting insights like a seasoned street rat. And the notion of being communicationally excluded in Night City? It's almost laughable. In a city that never sleeps, where information is currency, how can anyone not know how to drive or be out of the loop?

I scoff at the irony of it all. "Trapped in a story where even the protagonist can't keep track of the plot twists. What's next? Am I going to discover I'm the lost son of some corporate mogul?" I turn to Glitchy Greg. "Hey, Greg, we should probably ask Miky Mike about all this, right?"

Greg, looking utterly baffled, squints at me. "Miky Mike? Who the heck is Miky Mike, Ryker?"

With a dramatic gesture, I point to the side of us. "You know, Miky Mike! He's been with us all along, listening and watching. Right over there."

Greg's expression shifts from confusion to concern. He stares at the spot where I'm pointing, seeing nothing but the void. After a tense minute of silence, he finally speaks up, his voice laced with worry. "Ryker, man, are you feeling okay? There's no one there. You're seeing people that aren't there."

I glance back and forth between Glitchy Greg and the empty space I had whimsically named 'Miky Mike.' Greg's concern is palpable, a stark contrast to the imaginary presence I've conjured.

"Yeah, right, Greg," I say with a sigh, my voice tinged with a note of defeat. "There's nobody there. Just the two of us in this digital nowhere land." I throw an apologetic glance at the empty space where 'Miky Mike' supposedly stood.

I can see the sadness in the eyes of my imaginary friend, a figment of my digital imagination. It's a bittersweet moment, acknowledging the loneliness and absurdity of my situation. "Sorry, Miky," I murmur under my breath, a half-hearted attempt to console a friend who never existed.

Glitchy Greg, who's suddenly become a philosopher. He's thumbing through a tattered book, looking perplexed. "Hey, Ryker, ever wonder why Danny had to die? It's like the storyteller just flipped a switch."

I roll my eyes, the monotony of this conversation matching the endless expanse of codes around us. "Greg, we're in a neon mirage here. Everything's made up, including the tragedies."

Before we can dive deeper into existential angst, Evelyne, the stern-faced lady from the Voodoo Boys, materializes before us, her aura radiating urgency. "We're prepared, Ryker. It's time."

I can't resist a quip. "Oh, splendid. Just get me a catapult and some ammo, and I'm all set for a party."

Her confusion is almost comical. "This is no time for jokes, Ryker. The Blackwall awaits your action."

Greg, observing from the sidelines, mutters, "She's really into her role, huh?"

Ignoring him, I face Evelyne with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "And what about my real body, Evelyne? How's it holding up?"

"It's recovering from surgery, resting," she replies, sounding like a nurse reciting a patient's status. "But your focus should be on the Blackwall. That's your way back to reality."

I turn to Greg, letting my frustration show. "Feels like I'm being passed around like a baton in some twisted relay race."

Greg nods, his expression showing a rare moment of empathy. "Yeah, Ryker. You're everyone's go-to guy."

She launches into a deep, passionate explanation about the significance of the Blackwall to the Voodoo Boys, her words heavy with conviction. I nod along, not really absorbing her fervor. It's like watching someone deeply immersed in their own delusion.

Finally, I straighten up, adjusting my digital attire with a swipe of my hands and fixing my hair. "Alright, Evelyne, I'm ready. But I need a guarantee of my freedom after all this. I'm not just your tool."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "We keep our promises, Ryker. You have my word."

At this, Glitchy Greg bursts into laughter. "Good luck with that!"

Ignoring Greg's cynicism, I ask the crucial question. "So, how do I alert the Blackwall? I can't do it from this void, can I?"

Evelyne unfolds a detailed plan. "You need to connect to the main source. And for that, we're going to hit a Militech facility. It's risky, but it's the only way."

"Oh boy," I mutter under my breath. "Another plot twist, courtesy of our dear storyteller."

Despite my inner mockery, I nod in agreement. "Okay, Evelyne. I'm in. But mark my words, this is the last time I dance to the storyteller's tune."

Evelyne nods, her expression a mix of determination and uncertainty. "We'll begin the operation soon. Be ready, Ryker."

I stand for a moment, absorbing the gravity of Evelyne's departure, her words echoing in the digital void. Drifting closer to the spot where she vanished, I pause and sniff the air, a habit from my physical world that seems almost absurd here.

Glitchy Greg sidles up next to me, his digital form flickering. "You sure you know what you're doing, Ryker? 'Cause I know you think this is all another storyteller's trap."

I flash him a half-hearted smile, focusing intently on the residual codes swirling where Evelyne stood. "It's a risk, Greg. But what choice do I have? If there's a trail here, I need to follow it."

Greg frowns, his digital brow furrowed. "Take care of Mike, Greg. He might be just a figment, but he deserves some company."

With that, I reach out, my hands grasping at the codes, an intense concentration etched on my digital face. Each code feels like a thread in a vast tapestry, interwoven and complex. I pull at them, trying to trace their path back to reality. It's a herculean effort, requiring every ounce of my focus.

As I labor, beads of digital sweat form on my brow. The codes resist, like trying to untangle a knot that tightens with every pull. My fingers move with precision, guided by instinct and desperation.