Standing at the edge of the campsite, I can't help but fixate on the distant skyline of Night City. It's a flickering mirage, a neon-lit contradiction against the dark desert canvas. The night air is cool, a stark contrast to the unease burning inside me. And there they are – those data shadows, swirling around the city's luminous beacons and I can't read them when they are mixed. I think that it was this what I saw the other night, but what happen later? I know they're important, these data shadows. But they're all jumbled, an indecipherable mess that seems to mock my attempts to understand them. It's like trying to read a book with the pages all out of order. Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it.

Skaya steps out of the camper, her cyberware eyes scanning the horizon before landing on me. "What's up? You look like you're trying to solve the world's hardest crossword puzzle," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I shrug, opting for a casual lie. "Just admiring the view. Night City looks different from out here. Less chaotic, more... picturesque. I told you all, thanks for saving but please drive me to the next underground station." The words taste like ash in my mouth. I'm not one for poetic observations, but I can't let her know what's really on my mind.

My phone buzzes. Danny. Again. I let it ring. If I pick up, I'll have to weave another web of lies. And right now, I can barely keep up with the ones I've already spun.

Skaya doesn't seem convinced, but she doesn't push it. "Okay. You're a strange one, Ryker. One minute you're a sarcastic mess, the next you're all contemplative."

I chuckle, the sound hollow even to my ears. "Yeah, well, it's Chapter 3, and I've only managed to bag three followers and zero ratings. Talk about a disappointment." I try to keep it light, but there's a grain of truth in there. I'm frustrated, lost, and these data shadows aren't making it any easier.

She raises an eyebrow. "Chapter 3? Followers? Are you running some sort of weird reality show in your head?"

I wave my hand dismissively. "You wouldn't get it. It's an inside joke. With myself. And apparently, it's not catching on."

Skaya shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're an oddball, Ryker. So you didn't know what you saw another night, you didn't know why have you dragged me there... and you told me that you had brain surgery and it must be it."

Right. If stumbling through life, chased by gangs and haunted by digital phantoms is charming, then I'm a regular Prince Charming.

I turn back to the city, the data shadows still dancing at the edge of my vision. They're like the punchline to a joke I can't quite remember. II don't see them all the time... just sometimes. I need to figure them out, need to understand what they're trying to tell me. But for now, they remain just out of reach, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, covered in neon lights.

"Come on," Skaya says, breaking into my thoughts. "Let's get going. Tomorrow's another day, and who knows what Chapter 4 has in store for you and your imaginary audience."

I follow her back to the car, throwing one last glance at Night City. Yeah, who knows what tomorrow holds?

As we head back to the car, a niggling suspicion starts to worm its way into my thoughts. Skaya - with her cyberware eyes and uncanny knack for showing up at just the right (or wrong) moment. Her code, when I saw it, was different. It wasn't just different; it was weird. Indecipherable. Not like the others. What does it mean? Is she part of this whole twisted narrative? Part of whatever these data shadows are trying to tell me?

She's been asking a lot about my life, my past, especially about the my surgery. I've been dodging her questions, throwing in sarcastic comments and playing it cool like I'm some kind of Badass. But let's face it, I'm about as convincing as a cat playing a piano.

Now, as she drives me towards the nearest underground station, the silence in the car feels heavy, loaded. "Thanks for the lift," I say, trying to sound nonchalant. "And, uh, thanks for not leaving me to become desert critter chow."

She gives me a half-smile, the neon light from the dashboard casting strange shadows across her face. "No problem, Ryker. You're an interesting guy. Full of surprises."

Interesting? More like a walking disaster. She hands me a slip of paper with coordinates. "In case you remember anything... or need a getaway driver," she says with a smirk.

I pocket the number, stepping out into the cool night air. As I descend into the underground, a gut feeling washes over me - the sensation of being watched. I glance around, but there's nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual late-night crowd. And no data shadows, either. They're conspicuously absent, and that in itself feels ominous.

The train ride back to my apartment is a blur. My mind is racing, piecing together fragments of memories, Skaya's wierd behavior, and those ever-elusive data shadows. Why can't I see them now? Is it because I'm onto something? Or because I'm far from whatever source is triggering them?

I step off the train, my heart pounding. The feeling of being watched hasn't left me. It's like eyes are boring into my back, tracking my every move. I quicken my pace, my footsteps echoing in the empty street.

Finally, I reach my apartment. It's a relief to close the door behind me, to shut out the night and its myriad of mysteries. But even in the safety of my own space, I can't shake the feeling of unease.

I flop onto the couch, exhausted and frustrated.

"If this is going to be a story about me," I mutter to myself, "then it should at least be interesting, right?"

But what's interesting? Eddies, ladies, high-speed chases, and corporate intrigue? That's the stuff of classic Night City tales, the kind of stuff that makes a legend. But here I am. I lean back, staring at the ceiling. "Come on, Ryker," I say out loud. "If you're going to be the protagonist of this crazy story, you need to step it up. You need to be... more." But who am I kidding? I'm no hero; I'm just a guy who got a weird brain upgrade and now sees things that probably aren't there. I should visit this ripperdock who instaled me it...

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I flick on the TV, hoping for a distraction, but there's nothing but the usual late-night ads and sensationalist news. No messages, no secret codes hidden in the static. Just the same old, same old. I sigh and turn it off.

Then, almost on impulse, I grab my phone and dial Danny. He picks up on the second ring. "Ryker! Man, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you!"

I force a laugh, injecting a dose of irony into my voice. "Oh, you know, just hanging out in the desert with a mysterious woman, getting chased by gang members, the usual stuff. All good here."

Danny's silent for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"

"Of course, I'm kidding," I lie smoothly. "Just the usual existential crisis and a hangover from hell. We'll catch up soon, I promise."

He doesn't sound convinced, but he lets it go. "Alright, man. Just... be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, I know," I reply, the irony fading from my voice. "Thanks, Danny, tomorrow I'm going to remove that thing from my head. I'll be in touch."

I hang up and sit there in the silence of my apartment. Danny's words echo in my mind. Be careful. As if careful is something you can be in a city that chews up careful and spits it out. I turn back to the TV, flicking through channels aimlessly, half-expecting the data shadows to leap out from the screen. But no, it's just the regular late-night cacophony – infomercials, old movies, news channels repeating the same stories. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that speaks to me in cryptic codes. No more TV, now I'm standing by the window, looking down at the street. It's your typical Night City scene – a bunch of young guys hanging out. And then, there it is again, that mysterious data shadow, swirling around them like some kind of digital vulture.

Now, in a sensible story, I'd just watch from my window, maybe make a witty comment to myself, and go back to my couch. But no, this isn't a sensible story, is it? This is a story where I, Ryker, decide it's a brilliant idea to run out of my apartment and chase after the data shadow because apparently, I have the survival instincts of a lemming.

So, there I go, sprinting down the stairs because who needs elevators? I burst onto the street, trying to blend in with the night, which is hard to do when you're panting like a dog and your heart's pounding louder than a nightclub speaker.

As I get closer, the young guys spot me. One of them steps forward, his eyes narrowing. "What's this? An audition for the 'Creepy Guy of the Night' award?" he sneers.

"Hey, I'm just out for a stroll," I say, trying to sound casual while internally I'm thinking, 'Great job, Ryker. Strolling right into a potential mugging.'

But then, the city's finest – the NCPD – decide to make a cameo, their sirens wailing like a banshee with a megaphone. The guys scatter, and I'm left standing there, wondering if I'm the only person in Night City who doesn't know how to properly run away from the police.

Now, here's where it gets interesting – and by interesting, I mean utterly bizarre. The data shadow, it follows them. It's like it's attached to them with some invisible string. And because I obviously haven't made enough questionable decisions tonight, I decide to follow the shadow.

I'm sneaking through the streets, channeling my inner spy (or maybe just my inner idiot), trying to keep up with these kids. We end up in an alley – because of course, we do – where they meet up with a corp agent. The exchange is brief, no pleasantries, just business. The agent hands over a backpack and leaves.

The kids split up, and the data shadow seems to split with them. And there I am, hidden behind a dumpster, which, by the way, smells like it's hosting a convention for old takeout boxes.

I think to myself, "This is it, Ryker. You're a spy now. A spy hiding in garbage, but a spy nonetheless." I'm half expecting dramatic spy music to start playing. I decide to tail one of the kids. My inner spy is on high alert, and by spy, I mean someone who's watched too many detective shows and thinks he can actually pull this off. I keep a safe distance, blending in with the shadows and the occasional passerby who's out too late for their own good.

This particular kid seems to know his way around the alleys and backstreets of Night City like it's his own personal playground. I follow him to a small store, one of those places that sells everything from synthetic coffee to knock-off cyberware. I linger outside, trying to look casual, like I'm just another Night City dweller waiting for... something. Anything.

As I'm standing there, pretending to be fascinated by a flickering neon sign, gunshots shatter the night. They're coming from inside the store. My heart skips a beat. The kid bolts out of the store, a gun in one hand and a package in the other. His eyes meet mine for a split second, a look of sheer panic, before he disappears into the night.

I'm frozen for a moment, shocked. Gunshots aren't exactly uncommon in Night City, but being this close to one? That's new for me. After a few seconds, I muster the courage to peek inside the store.

Lying there, in a pool of blood, is the middle-aged woman who ran the store. She's motionless, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. I feel a knot in my stomach. This just got real – too real. I'm not cut out for this; I'm not some hard-boiled detective or street hero. I'm just Ryker, a guy who's in way over his head.

I quickly step back, my mind racing. I should call the NCPD, but then I'd have to explain what I was doing here. And honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing here. Back in the store, still reeling from the shock, I notice the shopkeeper crouching behind the counter. He's a familiar face – I've seen him around, probably exchanged nods a few times. He looks up at me, his eyes wide with fear.

"witness, right?" he whispers, his voice shaky. "That kid... he just came in, asked for something, then... bang. She was just standing there, and then... she wasn't." He gestures helplessly at the woman on the floor.

I nod, still trying to process everything. "I... I need to call the NCPD," I stammer, fumbling for my phone. Dialing NCPD, I brace myself for the usual bureaucratic enthusiasm of a sloth on a cold day.

"Night City Police, what's your emergency?" The voice on the other end sounds like someone who's just been awakened from a thousand-year slumber.

"Hey, I've got a shooting here," I start, but I'm interrupted almost immediately.

"A shooting, huh? Did you try shooting back? It's Night City, everyone's got a gun. It's like a fashion accessory here."

"No, I didn't shoot back. I'm at a store, there's a woman dead on the floor," I explain, my patience already wearing thin.

"Dead, you say? Are you sure she's not just taking a very committed nap?"

"I'm pretty sure dead people don't nap with bullet wounds," I reply, my voice laced with sarcasm.

"Ah, a bullet wound, now that's more specific. You see, we get a lot of prank calls."

I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. "Look, can you just send someone over? This is serious."

"Serious, huh? Last time I checked, seriousness was outlawed in Night City. Too much paperwork. How about you take a deep breath, have a drink, and wait for the morning? Things always look better in the morning."

"I don't need a drink, I need a police officer. There's a killer on the loose!" My voice is rising now, a mixture of disbelief and anger.

"Killer on the loose, huh? Well, join the club. We've got a whole parade of them here. Tell you what, why don't you fill out a form, and we'll get back to you in five to ten business days?"

"Five to ten business— Are you kidding me? There's a dead body here!"

"Alright, alright. Keep your cybernetics on. We'll send someone. Eventually. But no promises on the timing."

Only in Night City could a murder be less important than an existential crisis at the police department.

I step back into the night air, a mix of anger and dark amusement churning inside me. "Well, Ryker," I say to myself, "looks like you're the detective now. Night City's finest, indeed."