"I'm telling you right now—I'm a cyberpsycho, and a ruthless boss!"
Arthur stood on the podium, hands raised like a prophet announcing doom. His voice echoed across the square, rich with exaggerated enthusiasm. He was clearly letting loose—perhaps too loose.
The workers gathered below didn't know whether to cheer or run.
Lucy, arms crossed and cigarette dangling from her lips, sighed heavily from the front row. She pinched the bridge of her nose in pure exasperation. That was the third time today Arthur had threatened to implement "extreme measures" as a joke—except it was getting harder to tell if he was actually joking.
Maybe it was finally time to reserve a room at Night City's last standing mental hospital for him... if they had beds left. Word on the street said the facility had overflowed so badly that even MaxTac had been deployed to provide "treatment." With guns.
She sighed again and lit her cigarette.
The employees, meanwhile, stood frozen. Trembling, even.
Eighteen-hour work shifts?
That left barely six hours for rest, and that was if you didn't live in a combat zone. But this was Night City. Peace and quiet weren't on the menu.
Still, they didn't bolt. Jobs were rare. High-paying ones, rarer still. In Night City, between gang shakedowns, corporate oppression, and surprise shootouts, employment was more fragile than a glass gun.
Folk customs were simple and honest, as they said—with a revolver behind every smile.
Suddenly, one of the workers—a stout man with prosthetic legs and a stubborn glare—stood up and waved his arm.
"Arthur, what the hell?!"
Arthur raised a brow.
"From now on," he said with a smug grin, "you'll only have to work twelve hours a day. You okay with that?"
The man froze mid-rant.
"...Wait. Did you say twelve?"
Arthur gave him a puzzled look. "Ma Yun, what's the problem? Don't like the hours?"
Ma Yun blinked. Then, a smile cracked across his face.
"You're a damn saint! I've never met a boss as generous as you! Let's get to work!"
And just like that, he rallied the workers and rushed into the factory. No one needed to explain the workflow—they'd rehearsed everything over the past two days.
Arthur watched them go with a neutral expression. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
Ma Yun wasn't stupid. None of them were. Sure, the hours were long, but the pay was above average, the benefits real, and the boss wasn't a psycho who'd shoot them for blinking wrong.
At least, not yet.
Maine stepped up beside Arthur, eyes half-narrowed.
"You know," Maine said, "twelve-hour shifts? That's pretty generous. Market rate in this city is sixteen—if you're lucky."
Arthur shrugged. "I know. I invented the market rate. Don't forget who dragged you into this merc cesspool in the first place."
He took another drag, then exhaled with a grin. "But c'mon, man. Twelve hours is already pushing the limits of a human body—augmented or not. A donkey doesn't work that hard."
Maine raised an eyebrow.
Arthur continued. "And we don't need that much inventory. Not yet. We're in the hunger marketing phase—build demand, control flow. If I let those chrome-heads run wild, we'll end up with warehouses full of unsold chips. And guess what? Materials cost money."
He paused, smoke curling from his lips.
"Money I don't feel like losing."
Lucy nodded approvingly in the background, while workers filed into the building in neat lines. Each one passed by a large holographic tutorial screen that Delamain had designed—a "For Dummies" guide to operating chip production lines.
Arthur had barely lifted a finger.
He didn't need to. The system ran itself.
Suddenly, Gloria appeared beside him. She shot Lucy a side glance—half-curious, half-guarded—before turning her attention to Arthur.
"So," she said. "Am I officially the chairwoman now?"
Arthur nodded. "Yep. You're the boss of Umbrella Corp now. If you need help, Delamain's your guy. He's been assisting me on some side work—looking for his son, actually."
Gloria raised a brow at that. "Delamain has a son?"
Arthur grinned. "Don't ask."
Truth was, Arthur wanted to run the company himself. The idea of setting up shop and going full corpo was weirdly appealing after all the blood and chrome.
But this was Night City. You couldn't start a company without building an army first. If you didn't have power, you were prey. Gangs would shake you down. Megacorps would crush you. If you weren't the apex predator, you were meat.
Arthur wasn't about to pay the Claws or the Animals for protection.
So, he'd do it the old-fashioned way: build his own muscle.
That way, if any corpos came knocking, he'd have the firepower to answer.
And if things really went sideways?
He'd at least have the chance to get Lucy, David, and the rest of his crew out before the city swallowed them whole.
Speaking of David...
The kid stepped up beside Arthur, posture stiff as a metal rod. He was decked out in a prototype work vest, the Arasaka logo still faintly visible beneath the paint.
"Father..." David said.
SMACK!
Arthur slapped the back of his head.
"What did I tell you?! If anyone finds out I'm your old man, they'll kidnap you just to get to me. From now on, I'm 'God.' Got it?"
David staggered but saluted sharply. "Yes, boss—uh, God!"
Arthur sighed, puffed on his cigarette, and muttered, "Freakin' weirdo..."
Maine chuckled. Even Dorio, still recovering from her injury, cracked a grin.
"He's got potential," she said. "Put that boy in 6th Street or Militech, and they'd have him running departments in no time. Pity he wasted all that time in Arasaka Academy."
"Yeah, well," Arthur grumbled, "that's life. Full of dumb choices."
He stared out at the factory courtyard, now bustling with activity. The workers were already settling into their roles. Machines were humming, shipments being prepped, and for once, things felt... stable.
Peaceful.
But Night City didn't do peace.
Arthur knew better.
He took one final drag, crushed the cigarette under his boot, and turned back toward the skyline.
Because peace never lasted long in this town.
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