Chapter 78: Collapsing Utopia

With that, Arthur lifted the cigar in his hand and bit off the cap.
He patted his pockets, only then remembering—this was new clothing, and he hadn’t brought anything to light it.

“Damn it, where the hell’s a fire?”

“Go find one yourself. Second floor—there should be a cigar lounge up there.
And smoke it there—that’s the proper etiquette at high-class balls.”

V casually pointed behind her, making no move to get up.

“You don’t seem to like this stuff. What, the new upper class found some new pastime?
But that doesn’t make sense—Jackie doesn’t smoke either.”

Arthur stood again as he spoke.
Across from her, V answered offhandedly.

“Probably because of Mama Welles?
I grew up an orphan. Even though she struggled herself, that lady always looked after me.”

“Fine, keep dreaming about being the good girl. I’ll be back soon.”

Leaving those words, Arthur headed into the hall.
He climbed the broad staircase. The place V had mentioned was impossible to miss, and Arthur went straight to it, paying no attention to the two figures hiding in the southwest corner.

In that shadowed corner, Brown was on a call, his tone dripping with superiority.

“The ball? Sir, I’m afraid you’ll be staying outside tonight.”

Whatever the other side said wiped the smile off his face.

“You know, Night City has no shortage of Fixers. If the company wasn’t looking the other way, you wouldn’t even get a sip of soup.
So… sir, do you still want this job? This opportunity?”

The other side must have relented, because Brown’s face brightened again with a smile.

“Finally, have a pleasant evening.”

Amy watched her subordinate end the call before asking coolly.

“So? I mean, how did the dog perform?”

“The dog’s very obedient. We don’t need to give him anything—just dangle a bone and he’ll come running.”

Brown wisely reined in his expression, slipping back into that trademark respectful mask.
Moments ago he had mocked the weak without restraint, and now he was back to looking utterly submissive.
Perhaps that was why every corporate employee clawed their way upward by any means necessary.

Faraday hung up with a grim look, his four eyes burning with hate.
Outside the window, the massive Arasaka logo atop Konpeki Plaza cast its cold glow down from on high, washing across his face.

He tilted his head back slightly, staring at the sign like it was light pouring straight from heaven’s gates.
His jaw clenched so hard his neck trembled. He wanted nothing more than to soar upward right now, to stand at the very peak of this city.

“With that ladder, with my intellect, I’ll rise fast. Soon, I’ll trample everyone beneath my feet.
Then Maine and his crew, those two bitches who dared order me around—everyone who’s ever seen me humiliated—they’ll all die…”

Faraday’s heart screamed with rage, hysterical.
But just as his fantasies swelled, the driver ahead shattered them.

“Boss! What do we do now?”

Up ahead, the barrier to Konpeki Plaza’s parking lot remained firmly down. Behind them, horns blared impatiently.

“Idiot! Turn around!”

His eyes flashed venom as he growled the order.

“But… we’re not going in?”

As if deliberately provoking him, the fool dared to ask again.

“Damn fool, I said turn around!”

At the Arasaka Waterfront, the lanes heading the same direction as Faraday’s car were filled almost entirely with hulking trucks hauling cargo from the docks.
On the opposite side, trucks were lined up in long queues, waiting silently.

They would have to wait until the banquet ended before being allowed through.
Every shipment, urgent or not, sat silent in the night, as if weighed down by something unseen.

The driver pulled them off the Arasaka Waterfront before asking again.

“Boss, where to now?”

They had only driven a short distance, but Faraday had already regained his composure.
His voice carried a faintly sinister amusement.

“We’re going to Pacifica. Since we can’t watch, we’ll get to work instead.
Opportunities will come—won’t they?”

Faraday rested his hand on the window’s edge, idly tapping the door.
The expensive business-class sedan now had a clear destination, heading south.

As it sped along the highway, the man closed all four of his eyes and lay back in his seat.
He had already tried Kiwi. Since that bitch refused him, Maine and his crew would probably suspect he had problems on his end.
If he couldn’t approach them directly, he’d find someone else. After all, Night City was full of Fixers who couldn’t break into the big leagues.

As for screwing mercs and trashing his reputation? He was moving into corporate anyway—what did reputation matter?
That was just street-level nonsense.

Through his neural link, he found the contact he wanted and dialed.

“Hey, Kirk. How you been?”

Kirk was a guy hanging around Pacifica, half a Fixer, half a loan shark, dabbling in sleazy side hustles.
Though he lived in Pacifica, most of his work was elsewhere.

Pacifica—once planned as a resort paradise by the Night City Project—had collapsed into bankruptcy when the economic crisis cut off funding.
Now it was a surreal wasteland: high-quality flooring beneath half-built, abandoned towers.
Avant-garde skyscrapers with their rebar and rusted scraps laid bare.
Tiles cracked with weeds pushing up through them, left untended for years.

This was where Night Corp’s downfall began. Compared to global giants like Arasaka and Militech, Night Corp’s foundation was far too weak.
Everyone knew the so-called “economic crisis” was nothing more than a ploy to crush Night Corp.
With Arasaka and Militech leading, the mega-corps pulled their investments one by one, like ripping out Night Corp’s bones and draining its blood.

What remained was a frail company, once the engine of the city’s prosperity, now reduced to a patient surviving only by clinging to infrastructure property rights.
Night City—perhaps its original future wasn’t meant to be like this. Night Corp had once dreamed of a utopia free from corporate oppression.
But when crisis struck, its citizens only kicked it while it was down.

Just like now. On paper, Pacifica still belonged to Night Corp. In reality, the Voodoo Boys ruled it.
A gang of Haitians—brutal netrunners, fiercely united, and equally xenophobic.
The Voodoo Boys were essentially a cyber-terrorist collective. With their ties to the Old Net and threats to the Blackwall, they held a deterrent that forced NetWatch to keep its distance.
Because of that, they were a truly independent faction. When the Blackwall was involved, no one dared act rashly.

Faraday waited patiently for an answer, and soon a voice came through.

“Looks like our future big shot needs me again.
Shouldn’t a rat like me, too low for the stage, just ignore your call?”

The tone was hostile, even confrontational, a remnant of an old dispute.
Faraday chuckled, not the least bit upset, his voice still easy.

“Kirk, I don’t deal in empty words. This time it’s big business.
How about we talk? Meet? Just a chat, nothing serious.”

Still with all four eyes closed, his thin hand moved through the air, like he was conducting some invisible orchestra.

“Let me guess—Militech?
I’ll say it again: I don’t deal with corps. No point in meeting.”

That was the root of their conflict. Once, when Faraday was working for Militech, he’d asked Kirk for help.
Kirk thought it was too risky and turned him down. Faraday called him “under the table,” and they split on bad terms.

But truthfully, Faraday had little risk—the real danger lay on Maine’s side. All Faraday had to do was wait for the results.

“Damn it. If that idiot Maine had just followed orders, none of this shit would’ve happened.”

Faraday cursed to himself.