The air in the apartment was thick, a stagnant current smelling of rust and old wiring. Outside, the never-ending symphony of Night City—the drone of AVs, the shrill broadcasts from advertisement blimps, the distant, faint pops of gunfire and sirens—was filtered through the thick glass into a dull background noise, the city's unique, morbid white noise. But to V—Valerie—this noise had long since seeped into her blood, becoming the accompaniment for the final countdown of her life.

Her last birthday.

The thought was like a cold slug, lodged squarely in her chest, causing a faint yet distinct ache with every breath. It wasn't melodrama; it wasn't hypochondria. It was a concrete, physical end. The Relic, that damned silver plague slotted into her neural port, was erasing her, slowly, inexorably, in a way she couldn't comprehend or fight. Johnny Silverhand's digital ghost, his memories, his mannerisms, his rage, were seeping into her neurons like a virus.

She stood by the apartment's modest window, her forehead almost touching the cold glass. Below was the abyssal glow of the city, neon light bleeding like poisonous colors, tinting her cheeks but failing to pierce the shadows in her eyes. The Afterlife sign glowed huge and garish, the name feeling bitterly ironic now. Become a legend? She'd come so close. Now, at the end of that road, waited not a drink named in her honor, but a silent, complete deletion.

In the corner, the bottle of whiskey stood alone, its label brand new, starkly out of place in the chaos of her home, which was littered with weapon parts, spent casings, and dirty clothes. She'd bought it on purpose, with the last of the eddies from her previous gig. A farewell drink. A bitter joke. The idea of toasting her own impending end with the face of the asshole set to replace her was fucking surreal.

Right then, the simple intercom on the door buzzed—a short, static-filled beep. No video feed, just audio. It was enough. V's body stilled for a barely perceptible moment. She drew a sharp breath, the air tasting of metal, dust, cheap beer, and the faint mix of sweat and gun oil from her own skin. She forced herself to turn from the window towards the thin, flimsy apartment door.

Her last birthday. Her only guest.

"It's open. Come on in. Try not to trip over the... well, anything."