-Diary Log 3/22/2045-

Dear Diary,

Reincarnation is such an odd thing. Being an adult in a child's body is a fever dream, but what is more of a fever dream is the world I now inhabit. Cyberpunk 2077 was a game in my old life, a twisted dystopia, a festering cesspool of corporate decay and technological corruption where hope is nothing more than a hollow, discarded promise, yet this is the reality I get to live with. 

Right now, I’m sitting in the corporate daycare, a sterile room designed with bright digital murals and programmed smiles to keep us little ones pacified. Around me, other kids laugh and play as if nothing ever goes wrong, their eyes filled with the kind of wonder that I can’t quite muster anymore. They’re the children my age who believe in fairy tales and superheroes. Me? I’m stuck pretending, wearing a smile that doesn’t reach the tired depths of my eyes.

Today, the caretakers read us a story about heroes triumphing over adversity, a tale meant to inspire and mold us into obedient citizens of this neon nightmare. Every so-called “brave act” they described echoed the corporate battles I’ve come to see all too clearly. It’s like the story was tailor-made for this world, where every emotion and act of rebellion is just another line in a profit report.

My parents drift in and out of my day like shadows, more concerned with corporate benefits and maintaining appearances than taking care of me. They drop me off here with a quick nod and a promise that the company’s daycare will do all the parenting for them. I’m grateful for the safety and the routine, but it feels like I’m just another asset, a convenient cost to be outsourced when they’re too busy climbing the corporate ladder. But tonight, in this quiet moment before nap time, I’m writing these words as a small act of rebellion. I’m holding on to the hope that one day, I’ll break free from the confines of this dystopia.

Until  tomorrow,

Ellia

-Log End-

I shut off the data entry and looked at myself in the changing room mirror. 

‘I was so stupid,’ I thought as I tied my thick, dark hair into a ponytail. I allowed the naive dreams of becoming a night city legend, an afterlife merc with a crew, to flow through my head before snapping back to reality.

I then sign and pull on my graduation robe, a crisp, oversized garment that feels as sterile as the corridors of this city. The fabric, embroidered with the university’s insignia, seems to mock my inner rebellion. It’s as if the school believes that dressing me in this uniform can erase the scars of disillusionment, that I can somehow be reset with a cap and a gown. I adjust the graduation cap on my head, its weight an ironic echo of the expectations placed upon me.

Downstairs in the dorm hall, the muted sounds of celebration mix with the constant hum of neon from outside. I hear the chatter about internships and prospects, a parade of hopeful voices marching into the same predetermined future. As I go through the quiet corridors, I almost wish I could remain invisible, just another face in the crowd. Almost.

“Elliaaa!!!!”

I turn to see Clover waiting by the entrance of the building with her irrepressible grin. “Ellia!” she calls out, her voice a burst of color in the grayscale morning. “You’re finally ready for the big day!” There’s a brightness in her eyes that seems to defy the darkness I see everywhere. I allow my face to relax into a smile.

Clover and I have been in each other’s lives for as long as I can remember, but not because of some natural, chance friendship. Our connection was carefully constructed, the result of our fathers working in the same corporate sector, moving in the same Biotechnica inner circles. From a young age, we were encouraged, expected really, to get along. Playdates were scheduled with the same precision as investor meetings, our families subtly ensuring that we built the kind of bond that would benefit both sides in the long run. After all, in corpo life, friendship isn’t just about companionship; it’s about alliances, future connections, and mutual leverage.

Clover never seemed to question it. She embraced the world we were born into with the same effortless charm that makes her impossible to dislike. Unlike me, she doesn’t see the system as a cage. To her, it’s an opportunity. She’s always been good at this game, at knowing the right things to say, the right people to talk to. She belongs here in a way I never quite have. But despite everything, the artificiality of how we met, the corporate strings tying us together, her warmth has always felt genuine. And in a world where relationships are built on profit margins and carefully managed reputations, maybe that’s the closest thing to real friendship we can have.

Clover’s cheerfulness is both infuriating and oddly comforting. I sometimes wonder if her optimism is as manufactured as the digital dreams that fill this city, perhaps a byproduct of being raised in a gilded box courtesy of exec parents at Biotechnica, where every whim is catered to and every problem neatly solved. Meanwhile, my fate appears just as preordained, with my dad holding a decently high position as head of some R&D department and my mom working under him. I, too, am staring down the barrel of the same relentless corpo treatment they’ve long accepted.

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“Ellia, you look amazing today!” she chirps her cheer, a stark contrast to the resignation that has long since settled into my bones.

I manage a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Thanks, Clove. Ready for the ceremony?”

Clover’s laughter rings out, filled with a hopeful innocence I can’t afford. “Absolutely! Today’s our day to shine, to celebrate new beginnings!” She doesn’t seem to sense the endless cycle that awaits us.

As we walk toward the shuttle that will take us to the main auditorium, I watch Clover chatter about internships, dreams, and the future with a brightness I once shared in another life. Now, every word she utters only deepens the contrast between her blissful ignorance and my resigned reality.

I climb aboard the AV and take a seat by the window. The city outside blurs into neon streaks, a ceaseless reminder of a world where every glimmer of light is just a well-designed facade. I momentarily lean back and close my eyes, not to dream of escape but simply to brace myself for the ritual ahead. Once on stage, I will accept another certificate, another validation of a system that claimed my hope years ago.

Clover chattered beside me, her optimism undimmed. I listen with detached politeness, my thoughts adrift in the certainty that this is just another beginning of the same endless cycle. As the shuttle doors slide open and we step into the bright, indifferent light of the auditorium, I let go of any lingering pretense of hope. Freedom was a naive fantasy, and I am well acquainted with the harsh truth of Night City.

My thoughts slowed as the AV came to a stop. The auditorium was an immaculate display of corporate influence disguised as tradition. Cold. Pristine. A seamless blend of old-world academia and modern excess. Above us, holographic banners floated with glowing university insignias, rotating alongside curated advertisements for “exciting career opportunities” at the city’s biggest megacorporations. 

The speeches droned on, each word a hollow platitude about ambition and innovation. The dean, an aging man with tired eyes and a voice trained to sound inspiring, spoke about “reshaping the future” and “embracing limitless potential.” I sat in the sea of graduates, staring up at his polished smile, knowing full well that “potential” in Night City was nothing more than a resource to be harvested, refined, and eventually discarded.

Clover, of course, drank in every word, clapping at the right moments, nodding along like she wasn’t already pre-approved for some high-paying research position at Biotechnica. She had the luxury of believing in the system. I envied her for it, but only a little.

When they finally called my name, I walked onto the stage with a practiced expression, not too serious or indifferent. The camera drones hovered nearby, capturing my face for whatever corporate data collection purposes they deemed necessary. I shook the dean’s hand, accepted the diploma, and turned toward the sea of spectators.

Rows of parents and families filled the seats, clapping as their children crossed the stage. Some cheered. Some even cried. I scanned the crowd out of habit with my optics, knowing what I would find. Or rather, what I wouldn’t.

My parents were absent, and I had not expected them to be here.

The ceremony continued, a blur of names and faces, until, finally, it was over. The graduates erupted into cheers as caps were thrown into the air, a fleeting moment of celebration before reality came crashing down.

Clover grabbed my hand, spinning me in excitement. “We did it! You and me! We’re free!”

I forced a small laugh. “Yeah. Free.”

As we made our way outside, surrounded by crowds of families and friends taking pictures, my holo buzzed. I already knew who it was before I even looked. I stepped away from the noise and accepted the call. My father’s face appeared, all sharp angles and exhaustion, framed by the sterile glow of an office. He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t at the ceremony. He was at work, as always.

“Ellia,” he said, not bothering with congratulations. “You’ll be starting at Biotechnica next week. Entry-level cybersecurity. Your mother and I pulled some strings to get you in.”

A statement. Not a discussion.

I exhaled slowly, and he took my silence as a confirmation.

“Your mother and I are satisfied with your performance in NCU,” My dad continued, “You’ll have a good job. Stable. Benefits. You’ll have a future there.” 

A future.

The word felt like a noose.

I glanced back at the courtyard, where Clover and her other friends laughed and took pictures with their families. The air smelled like street food from the vendors parked outside the university gates. The city stretched beyond them, neon lights flickering against the dusk sky, promising everything and nothing simultaneously.

For a moment, I let my intrusive thoughts run wild. I could refuse. I could walk away, toss my diploma into the nearest gutter, and take my chances in the underbelly, where the city's discarded lives battled for every scrap of dignity, chaos reigned, and hope was as rare as a clean breath. And yet, as much as I hated the suffocating grip of Night City’s corporate life, a part of me couldn’t help but feel silently relieved that I wasn’t born into that cesspool. People fought daily to survive in the maze of broken dreams and endless struggle. I might be chained to a future I never chose, but at least my beginnings weren’t written in the harsh ink of the underbelly. It wasn’t freedom; it was just a twisted kind of privilege, but it offered a slight advantage in a city that consumed the weak.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Fine.”

My father nodded, satisfied. “I’ll send you the details.”

The call ended.

I stood there momentarily, staring at my reflection in the dark glass of a university building. The cap and gown. The hopeful smile I was supposed to wear. The future that had already been decided for me.

“Ellia!” Clover called, waving me over. “Come on! We’re getting drinks to celebrate!”

I took one last breath and turned away from my reflection.

For tonight, I could pretend.