To be honest, Roqi couldn't really understand why so-called premium steaks were priced so outrageously.
If he had to put it in poetic terms, it was like "a cow chewing peonies." Sure, the steak tasted fine, maybe even great, but it was rich, oily, and overwhelming if you had too much.
What really caught his attention was the post-meal salad and the cold drinks. He crunched through the fresh lettuce like it was the best thing he'd tasted in years.
Because in this world, it pretty much was.
These were luxuries.
Synthetic food had taken over by 2020.
The economic crash of 1994 indirectly led to the global food shortage in 2002, which fast-tracked the development of synthetic food technologies.
Then came the mutated plant virus in 2002, wiping out wheat crops across Canada, Australia, and the Soviet Union. U.S. agro-corps survived unscathed thanks to newly developed bio-counteragents. The Soviets, naturally, accused the U.S. of biochemical warfare.
But American agribusinesses didn't resume food production. Instead, they threw everything into developing CHOOH2—a new biofuel.
From 2010 to 2020, CHOOH2 became so widespread it even consumed resources meant for agriculture. Synthetic food wasn't just the future—it became the only future.
Ironically, China—a major rice producer—made an obscene profit during this time. A massive windfall that kept growing for the next half-century.
The Soviet Union didn't return to grain exports until 2020, and even then, they accounted for just 10% of the world's wheat and corn supply. Same for Canada.
China had the biggest share. Not bad at all.
Fresh food, meanwhile, was reserved for corporations, celebrities, and the ultra-wealthy.
Statistics said only 3% of people had ever eaten fresh food—even just once.
Mass graves, synthetic plagues, chemical weapons, and corporate waste had poisoned most natural water sources. Indoor hydroponic farms became the only way to grow real food—like the ones owned by ConAg in Kansas City. And the prices? Sky-high.
In Night City, fresh produce was as valuable as cigarettes during wartime—damn near a hard currency.
Those who couldn't afford it relied on vitamin compound pills. One capsule, all your nutritional needs—corporate promise.
And what kind of industry boomed alongside this?
Water filtration.
Rooftop gardens, hydroponic meat, genetically edited veggies—none of it could survive without clean water. Not water that might mutate your tomatoes into sentient creatures.
Even toddlers in Night City knew the rain was poison.
So filtration systems became mandatory.
By 2077, all major water filtration manufacturers had been swallowed by megacorps. The market was left with a few cheap knockoff brands hanging on by a thread.
People were getting shot over stolen tomatoes. No joke. NCPD said they'd seen worse. These so-called "vegetable crimes" were basically background noise.
In the more lawless zones, you'd see under-equipped civilians armed to the teeth guarding... gardens.
Makeshift rooftop farms sat atop ruined apartment blocks, equipped with primitive sprinklers and basic filters, growing fresh produce that sold like hotcakes in Night City.
Unfortunately, it was basically like growing gold.
There would always be gangs and thugs who preferred stealing over farming.
Violence? Always inevitable.
Roqi remembered when he first saw the news and did a deep dive online. His face was a study in disbelief.
He knew Night City in 2077 was nuts.
But a cyberpunk version of Plants vs. Zombies?
Yeah, that caught him off guard.
Because they were literally defending carrots.
Of course, some corps had their hands in this niche too. But like growing poppies or coca leaves in your backyard—there was always a market.
The times had changed. Fruits and vegetables had become contraband.
Absolutely insane.
Just like he planned, Roqi's only goal today was to wander Night City with Mower and stay as horizontal as possible—lie down if you could, sit if you must, stand only as a last resort.
They hit up a spa, nearly dozing off under the robotic masseuses' expert hands. Then chilled in a panoramic high-rise with 200-meter floor-to-ceiling glass, playing immersive 2077 arcade games, flipping old-school cards, and finally, leaning together in a floating rooftop garden, gazing over the city.
It was the first time they'd seen Night City from this angle.
People always said the city was hell. That it chewed up and spat out everyone who came.
But now, Roqi finally understood why it was also called the City of Dreams.
What they experienced today wasn't even close to elite-level living. Most of the people around were middle managers, small business owners, or minor corp execs—hardworking folks scraping out a living.
Sure, most of them had long since blurred the line between hustle and shady deals.
They were upper-middle class, or fallen elites. Petty officials. Washed-up celebrities. Third-tier types.
They represented a unique class that had escaped America's total collapse of the middle class.
The wealth gap in 2077 wasn't just vast—it was cosmic. Heaven and hell kind of divide.
Fifty years ago, people used to say someone was "rich enough to rival a nation." By 2077, that's not hyperbole—some of these people are nations. Their megacorps outclass entire governments.
They command financial monsters—true empires. Their power spans law, military, culture, and even ideology.
A Latin American country's entire air force might be weaker than the security detail protecting one corp-owned oil well.
If they wanted, they could start World War III.
Not that "world war" meant anything anymore. That phrase was a relic of the 20th century. Now, only corporations could wage war.
Even the Unification War? Bankrolled on both sides by capital.
NUSA had Militech. The Free States had their own backers.
This was the age of Corporate Wars.
Because they were the empires now.
And Night City was a battleground where twenty first-rate empires, dozens of second-tier corps, and countless little kingdoms all converged.
Human history had never seen anything like it.
Their HQs might be elsewhere, but half of Earth's top capital players had offices here.
A miracle—or a nightmare.
Talking about inequality in Night City was pointless.
Because nobody knew the true scale of their wealth.
Social fracture echoed in everything—especially consumption. Ultra-luxury at the top, followed immediately by the sleaziest dive bars and grime pits you could imagine.
The gap? Unbridgeable.
There were only two classes in Night City: the powerful and the powerless. That might sound dramatic—but it was mostly true.
The tiny middle class included corp employees, low-level officials, and people who missed the corporate gravy train.
They ran small businesses:
Restaurants, clubs, cafés, garages, pawn shops, braindance studios—even little clinics. What you'd call small bosses.
Not food carts or shacks—real storefronts.
Some of them were just honest people trying to survive without selling out to a corp.
A few even found fleeting success—before being crushed or bought out.
Despite massive talent grabs, small businesses remained one of the few non-corp employment options.
After nonstop corporate wars disrupted everything, some control was lost, and small businesses had a moment to breathe again.
But people like that? Still rare.
Is this normal?
Hell no.
It meant unless you were corp or government, you had nowhere to go. No way to climb up.
Even inside corps, it was all blood and betrayal. Departments schemed. Officials warred. No space for the little guy. One slip, and you were bankrupt and forgotten.
Which is why so many people dreamed of one big score. Do a job. Cash out. Escape the slums.
Or become a celebrity. Win the fame lottery. Sleep your way into a rich circle.
This city had every kind of dream imaginable. That's what made it so addictive.
People flocked to Night City, because even though it was a nightmare, it still had beauty. Still had structure.
Everyone thought they'd be the lucky one.
Nobody wanted to climb the ladder one step at a time.
Not because they were lazy—but because there was no ladder.
Even Roqi made his money robbing corps.
Is that normal?
Of course not.
But if the entire world runs on that logic, then that becomes normal.
This isn't a city of peace and family.
It's a pirate sea. A cyber-Gotham. A battlefield without bullets.
It can be anything.
Even a graveyard.
Sometimes it buries your dreams. Sometimes your whole damn life. Sometimes your entire family—bones and all.
Death? It's just background noise here.
"Tragedy," Lu Xun once wrote, "is when the most valuable parts of life are destroyed before your eyes."
Roqi thought of that line as he gazed down through the towers, through the windows, seeing only broken fragments—once called dreams, conscience, life, self.
Now they were just bricks in Night City's foundation.
Even high above, you could hear the city breathe.
Ghosts murmured in your ears.
It was hell—but the kind that showed you dreams. Like a mirage pulling a dying traveler forward through the desert.
And if you could still see hope—couldn't that be called paradise?
Of course it could.
Roqi touched the window gently, brushing his fingers against the condensation beading on the outside.
Heaven for the rich. Hell for the poor.
To live here, you had to sacrifice something. And once there was nothing left, you became a shell moved by something else.
Jack always said he'd at least keep his pride at the end.
Roqi figured all he'd have left was madness—either explode in silence, or die in it.
"You look kinda down," Mower said, tilting her head.
She wasn't some clingy, giggly girl. Seeing the women at other tables cozying up to their dates made her uncomfortable. Not bashful—more like allergic.
A hardcore straight-shooter, she usually ignored people like that. But now, imagining herself in their place—with Roqi—scrambled her brain.
Should she try it?
Internal struggle: intense.
Meanwhile, Roqi stared out the window, holding her hand in silence.
Eventually, Mower made up her mind—
She was going to cuddle him.
Usually he would grope her out of nowhere, make her heart race, and leave her flustered.
This time, she'd make the first move!
Roqi's thoughts were interrupted.
A hand was rubbing up and down his leg.
He turned—and saw it was Mower.
Roqi: ???
"Is there something on my pants?" he asked, blinking.
"…Cuddle," Mower mumbled, eyes darting away.
Cuddle?
That was your idea of a cuddle?
Her hand moved in straight, mechanical strokes—like she was ironing his jeans.
Was this really a cuddle?
Was it a cuddle if it wasn't lewd?
Are you insulting the noble art of cuddling!?
Roqi was offended.
He reached out and decisively demonstrated what a real cuddle looked like.
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MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW?
🤖💘 MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW? 💘🤖
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📢 LOVE MEETS CYBERPSYCHOSIS! 📢
My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew? has 100+ chapters ahead available on Patreon! 💘💥
Romance is already complicated.
Now add:
🌃 Night City🦾 Cyberware🔫 Gunfights💀 Cyberpsychosis💥 Property damage❤️ And a girlfriend who might snap at any moment
Love hurts.
In this case, it might also come with bullets, broken walls, and emergency trauma care.
Don't wait for the madness — read ahead now on Patreon!
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🛑 ALSO AVAILABLE ON PATREON:
🌃 Cyberpunk: Dogtown Legend🔥 Cyberpunk: The Relentless👩👦 Cyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a System🧠 My Cyberpunk 2077 Simulator🛡️ Star Wars: The Rise of Mandalore🌌 Star Wars: Relics of the Past🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort⚡ The Rebirth of Harry Potter🌹 R18: Reincarnated in Her World
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