Max Caulfield stood on the edge of a narrow balcony, wedged between the flickering neon signs of Watson, a neighborhood in Night City where luxury and poverty intertwined like wires in an overloaded cable. Rain drummed on the tin railing, turning the accumulated dirt on the asphalt into neon slush, which reflected distorted corporate advertising holograms — their colors spread over puddles like poisonous ink. Max clutched a glass of cheap synthetic whiskey in her hand —the liquid in it seemed almost transparent, like a tear, but the taste left a bitterness on her tongue— a mixture of plastic and despair. The wind ruffled her hair, and raindrops settled on the lenses of her old glasses, blurring the contours of the city. She didn't notice it: her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the skyscrapers were drowning in an acid-yellow fog.
