My Girlfriend’s a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?

Screams echoed endlessly through an alley in the northern industrial zone—gut-wrenching, ceaseless cries of agony.

This was Regina's warehouse. No passersby, only her own people nearby—no need to worry about disturbing the peace.

Under Mower's interrogation, Yoshikawano had already suffered a complete mental breakdown. And yet, the torment continued.

This was how the corps did their interrogations—

First, grind down the target's will with relentless pain. Then, just as they start to crack, apply even more pressure. Break the spirit again, and again, and again. No mercy. No pause. Keep repeating the cycle until the target's identity dissolves entirely—until they're reduced to a hollow husk who numbly responds to any question, broken in body and mind. Only then are they "ready."

Mower wasn't some mute ice queen in front of outsiders, nor the shy girl who blushed when alone with Roqi. She was a full-spectrum killing machine—one of the finest weapons Militech ever built.

Even now, with her freedom restored, the things etched into her bones would never truly fade.

"Hello, Ms. Asano Natsuko. Your contract is complete," Roqi said, dialing the number Emeric had given him.

"...Is that so? Did that bastard leave any last words?" The voice on the other end was cold and firm—no emotion, no warmth.

Last words.

Two simple words that sealed Yoshikawano's fate.

The powerful rarely speak plainly. Euphemisms, formality, a thin veil of civility—that's how they keep things palatable.

"The good news is, it wasn't intentional. And afterward, he was overwhelmed with guilt. So much so, in fact, that he developed a mild split personality," Roqi replied, his voice chipper, like he was handling a customer complaint. "It wasn't personal—just an unfortunate accident."

"And the bad news?"

Asano didn't play games. She cut straight to the point.

"He was working for Arasaka," Roqi said, his tone dropping. "I suspect Miss Riko overheard something she wasn't meant to hear…"

He left the rest unsaid.

Describing her daughter's horrific death in brutal detail wouldn't help. It would only invite resentment—or worse, shift her wrath toward him. If this Vice Commissioner wasn't a complete fool, she could fill in the blanks.

If she'd just been a random sexbot, Arasaka would've crushed her without a second thought.

But if she was the daughter of a government official—estranged or not—there should have been hesitation. A line not to cross.

And yet she'd died. A pointless, humiliating death.

That's where the problem lay.

Remorse? Fury? A hunger for vengeance?

Roqi couldn't guess what this seasoned politician felt. But the voice that came next told him: this wasn't over.

"Arasaka…"

He heard Asano whisper through clenched teeth. Soft—but simmering with something deeper than mere grief.

"Keep digging. I want to know who's responsible."

Yoshikawano might've had a name among the Tiger Claws, but in a political war, he was just a pawn. Just another disposable piece.

Roqi's gut told him this went deeper.

When a job ties into a full-scale corporate power struggle, you're not playing with fire anymore. You're juggling napalm.

"Sorry. The contract only covered Yoshikawano. The torture session was a freebie. Enjoy your day," Roqi said with a casual shrug.

"And what if I have more business to offer?" Asano asked smoothly, not missing a beat. "I like your methods. How about working for us?"

"'Us'? Working for you?" Roqi repeated, instantly catching the shift in tone.

On one side—Arasaka. On the other—whatever faction Asano represented.

The Tiger Claws? Just pawns caught in the crossfire.

Now things were getting interesting.

"Before we talk 'deep cooperation,' we should probably get to know each other better, don't you think, Ms. Asano?" Roqi replied evenly, not the least bit intimidated.

"Then find the Arasaka agent behind this. Trust me—you won't regret it," Asano said, redirecting the conversation. "And consider this your next job."

"No offense, but don't you have your own people? Why me?" Roqi asked.

"Some jobs need specialists. And I believe you're exactly that," Asano said with corporate finesse. "Most importantly—someone recommended you."

"Recommended?" Roqi echoed, a grin tugging at his lips. "Alright, I'll take the job. But don't expect it to be easy. We're talking Arasaka."

"No problem…"

Not long after the call ended, a large deposit hit Roqi's account—laundered through a front company.

"What do you make of her?" Mower asked. She knew how corpos and government types operated. But Asano's approach didn't quite match the usual oligarch playbook.

"What else? Smile on the surface, kill behind the scenes. That's Night City politics," Roqi replied. "We'll handle the job. If they want a war, they can find their own army."

He dialed Rogue.

"Hey, Rogue. It's Lucky," he greeted. "The job's done. But the client wants me to dig deeper. Target's with Arasaka. Sounds like the client's got real clout. Should I take it?"

"Your call, rookie. It's your contract now," Rogue replied with a sly chuckle. "Just don't get too cozy with corpos or politicos. Once you're in too deep, it's already too late."

"So… go or don't go? Give me something solid," Roqi said, clearly conflicted.

Working for the powerful had perks—big eddies, less risk of being double-crossed. But the danger? Massive. These weren't street thugs. They were tigers.

Backstabbing, ghosting, betrayal—it was standard procedure. And no one could stop them.

"I told you. It's your decision," Rogue said again. But then added, "Just remember: jobs are jobs. Do the work, get paid, and walk away. Don't buy into their corpo promises."

She wasn't wrong.

Get paid. Do the job. Leave. That's what mercs do.

Anything more? You're not a contractor anymore—you're cannon fodder.

A corp could crush you with a single sneeze.

Hell, breaking into Konpeki Plaza again might be safer than crossing Arasaka.

"Got it."

Roqi took the advice to heart. "Also—need a background check. Name's Fujii Kenzo. Arasaka's point of contact with the Tiger Claws."

It was the last useful name Yoshikawano had given up.

"All business or personal?" Rogue asked. "Personal's free. Business costs."

"Alright, alright. I'll pay. Sending it now," Roqi muttered. "Hurry, though. If he catches wind and skips town, we're screwed."

"You took the job, rookie," Rogue said, sounding far too pleased. "Not my problem."

"Wasn't this your contract to begin with? You're just handing the whole thing off? No orientation? No onboarding?"

Sure, he was already juggling fixer duties. But still—it felt like Rogue had dumped it all on him.

"I already got paid. It's all yours now."

That breezy tone made Roqi clench his fists. Or at least, he told himself that's what was clenching.

"Screw you. Bye."

He rolled his eyes and hung up.

He was starting to understand Johnny's frustration—Rogue was a master manipulator. She didn't need to show off. Her words alone could drive you nuts.

Still, he had to admit—without her recommendation, he never would've landed a job this big.

He had a rep, sure. But a brand? Not yet.

…

As sunlight crept through Night City's alleys, Roqi stretched and let out a long yawn.

After everything—he could finally relax.

Sitting cross-legged on a rooftop, he let the morning sun bathe his face.

He watched as cargo drones zipped by, and that surreal, sci-fi skyline on the West Coast shimmered in the distance. He opened his mouth to say something—but then held it back.

Mower walked over quietly, hesitated, then clung to his right arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

Together, they watched the sunrise in silence.

"Sometimes I think about leaving Night City," Roqi murmured, gently leaning his head against hers. He could feel their hair brushing together. "But then I remember—everything I have is here. Family, work, friends… I can't even imagine where I'd go."

He had over 800,000 eddies in his account now. 700,000 from that Militech job alone.

To most folks scraping by in Night City, that was a fortune.

But it still wasn't enough to buy a proper home.

Not a slum tower. A real place—clean, quiet, safe.

The prices were insane. Just like the class divide.

A second-hand one-bedroom in Watson? 800K to 900K.

Closer to the NID? Sure, 400K—if you didn't mind cancer with your coffee.

Heywood? Almost a million. New builds? Add 20–30%.

South, toward Rancho Coronado? Slightly cheaper—but the quality dropped fast.

City Center? A second-hand one-bedroom? 1.5 million. Three-bedroom? Starts at four. And if it's a new build? Double that.

Roqi didn't want to go back to living in the trash.

Rotting tenements. Stinking garbage. Corpses in the stairwell. Neighbors surrounded by flies and maggots, lost in pirated braindance loops.

The megatower ghettos—where the poor got stacked like garbage. That was the real Night City.

And all he wanted was a small, clean space to call his own.

But in this city, that was luxury. A dream most people couldn't even afford to dream.

Lost in the shadows of supertowers, wandering the maze of alleys and stalls, forgetting their names, forgetting who they were—all for the sake of a dream worth dying for.

That's why Roqi liked standing up high. Seeing the sky—unblocked, untouched.

Sunny or stormy, clear or clouded—it didn't matter.

The sky always changed. And in that ever-shifting light, he saw something eternal.

"I thought I'd get used to this city," Roqi said, watching Night City come alive in the rising light. His eyes sparkled with gold. "But I was wrong."

Wading through a sea of filth in search of something pure—only to realize, this place wasn't born a landfill. It was turned into one. Shaped by greed. Hollowed out by capital.

As he intertwined fingers with the girl beside him, a voice echoed faintly in his mind—

"Wake the fuck up, Samurai. Let's burn this city to the ground."

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🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?

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