Disembarking in Night City did not feel like arriving.

It felt like being processed.

Void stepped out of the plane into a corridor that glowed softly blue, light panels embedded in the walls like veins. The air was warm, scented faintly with something floral that had no business existing inside an airport. Automated voices murmured in half a dozen languages, each one perfectly modulated, perfectly calm...

Void had always believed that if something was truly important, it would announce itself properly. Sirens. Gunfire... Maybe explosions. Something cinematic.

Boarding a plane, it turned out, felt more like waiting in line for a bad verdict.

Flying was fine. Physics made sense. Engines made sense. Gravity was a contract you could break with enough thrust and a good tilt. What Void hated was the ritual. The shuffling line. The performative politeness. The way everyone pretended this wasn't a metal coffin with snacks...

The hallway felt like it stretched for miles this time around, yet Void took it slow, not because she had to anymore, but because rushing felt wrong. With every floor she descended, the apartment above her felt further away, like it was already receding into memory instead of just being three levels up.

Naturally, she didn't like the feeling at all...

Two weeks was long enough for the body to lie convincingly.

Void had learned that the hard way over the months: how flesh closed ranks, how pain dulled just enough to pass as permission. Her ribs no longer flared white-hot when she breathed in too deep. The bruises that once painted her torso in violent purples and oil-slick blues had faded into those sickly yellow-green shades that made people think "oh, you're better now." Even the headaches had spaced themselves out, arriving less like a hammer and more like a reminder tapped against the inside of her skull.

She didn't trust a second of it...

Void's body yanked her back into consciousness reminding her rest is something they both have a different opinion on. Her ribs felt wired with barbed tension, every bruise radiating with an ugly, low-frequency ache that pulsed beneath her skin. The room was dark except for the faint spill of a desk lamp, gilding the room in a soft amber haze. She instinctively hissed a breath between her teeth. Her fingers twitched first - then the pain followed like a delayed apology...