Chapter 67: Heywood and Old Friends!

Soon after, Arthur said goodbye to the security captain — who was still standing there with a stunned, traumatized expression — and drove away from Westbrook.

He couldn't help but smirk a little.

Poor guy.

"Your circle is so chaotic."

Straight out of Westbrook and onto the open roads, Arthur was just looking for a quiet spot to ditch the temporary ride when a message pinged in his mailbox.

Arthur glanced at it lazily.

It was from the Old Captain.

Turns out, the worker representative had already been arranged and was free to meet him — today, no less — at the Wild Wolf Bar in the Heywood area.

Perfect timing.

Arthur turned to Jack, who was still slouched in the backseat, looking as if he had personally fought through a corporate war.

"I'm meeting the worker rep," Arthur said. "Want me to drive you to Lao Wei's to pick up your bike? Or you heading home first?"

Jack scratched the back of his head, a gesture he had picked up from Arthur.

"I better head home," Jack said heavily. "I... I need some time to be alone.

Today's been... more than I can handle."

He hesitated, then glared fiercely at Arthur.

"And if you ever — ever — tell anyone about what happened today,

I swear... I'll die right in front of you."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused.

What a beautifully heartfelt death threat.

He chuckled and said, "Jack, you're still too honest.

As a cyberpunk, Rule One is simple:

If there's no evidence, you just deny it.

Lying is part of the culture."

Jack gave him a long, hard stare.

Then, without another word, turned and sulked into his seat.

Arthur laughed inwardly.

Besides — thanks to his system, he already had those moments neatly captured in high-resolution photos.

Memories for a lifetime... and blackmail material for a rainy day.

Of course, he wasn't going to leak them.

Maybe when they were old men sitting around with beers, he'd show Jack those pictures — just to watch him spontaneously combust.

Soon, Arthur shifted gears and pulled off the quieter road they had been cruising.

The street lights blurred as the car headed toward Heywood — the real heart of Night City.

Heywood was... special.

It wasn't far from the glitzy city center, yet it embodied the full contrast of Night City better than anywhere else.

It had everything:

Big parks like Concord Park, funded and built during Night City's post-war reconstruction.

Luxurious high-rises gleaming in the north, full of upper-middle-class corpo rats.

Run-down slums crawling with the Valentino gang and other groups in the east.

Arthur couldn't help but think:

"Spend ten minutes in Heywood,

and you'll understand everything wrong with Night City."

In the north, it was clean, modern, almost respectable.

In the east?

It was a tangle of cracked concrete, squat houses, graffiti, and desperation.

And in between, the constant tension — corporate citizens pretending they weren't three bad weeks away from becoming gang meat.

Still, for all its chaos, Heywood was considered one of the most livable areas in Night City.

Better than Watson District,

better than Pacifica.

At least here, the smell of rot and gunpowder only hit you sometimes.

As Arthur cruised deeper into Heywood, the flavor of the streets changed.

The colors.

The music.

Mostly Latino, mostly proud, mostly armed.

Telling gang members apart here was a simple trick:

Tattoos wrapped around their custom cybernetic arms.

Old, beat-up classic cars, modified until they looked like lowrider spaceships.

Arthur still found it baffling.

"You can't afford real food,

but you can trick out your car until it needs its own mortgage?"

But hey, that was Night City.

Everyone had their priorities.

Finally, Arthur pulled the car into a spot near the Wild Wolf Bar — a familiar, comforting sight.

He parked casually on the street, shoved the pistol under his jacket, and rubbed his hands together.

Time to handle business.

Jack followed him silently, dragging his feet like a depressed puppy.

The moment they pushed open the bar doors, the familiar smoky atmosphere and rumbling laughter hit them.

Jack, looking like he'd been spiritually beaten with a baseball bat, immediately slinked off to the back.

Arthur, on the other hand, paused.

He spotted familiar faces right away:

Mrs. Wells, bustling behind the counter.

The Priest, nodding along to some old conversation.

A middle-aged Asian man sitting quietly nearby, a storm of sadness clouding his face.

Arthur inhaled deeply.

The scent of Wild Wolf Bar was... something between cheap tequila, gun oil, and sweat.

It was disgusting.

It was nostalgic.

It was home.

Even if technically, it wasn't his home.

Mrs. Wells turned as the door creaked.

Her eyes narrowed, studying Arthur with the sharp intuition only a mother could possess.

Then, she smiled coldly.

"I heard a cyberpsycho was back in town," she said dryly. "Didn't believe it until I saw you walk through my door, Arthur."

Arthur scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

He pressed his hands together in an apologetic gesture.

"Mrs. Wells," he said.

"More than ten years have passed.

Please, for old times' sake — forgive and forget?"

"And besides," Arthur added, winking,

"I escaped death. Doesn't that earn some points?"

For a moment, Mrs. Wells looked like she might stay angry.

But then she chuckled.

Reaching behind the bar, she grabbed a bottle of proper whiskey — not that synthetic piss most bars served — and tossed it to Arthur.

Arthur caught it with ease, smiling brightly.

"Welcome back to Night City," she said.

"And welcome back to the Wild Wolf Bar."

"I hope," she added with a raised eyebrow,

"you really did fix your crazy head.

It's good to see an old friend again."

Arthur grinned, cracked the seal, and took a hearty swig.

The whiskey burned his throat in the best way possible.

Real stuff.

Not synthetic.

Not recycled sludge.

Real grain.

Real distillation.

Real damn whiskey.

In a world where acid rain poisoned the soil, real alcohol was more valuable than some cyberware.

Most food and drink in Night City was synthesized from god-knows-what:

Meat made from starch and protein glue.

Water filtered three times through garbage rivers.

Booze made from syrup and ethanol and food coloring.

But this bottle?

The real deal.

Arthur closed his eyes and savored it.

It tasted like victory.

And maybe, for just a few minutes, it felt like he hadn't spent half his life clawing through the gutter.

[End of Chapter 67: Heywood and Old Friends!]