Johnny Silverhand
The Night City air was thick with humidity and the distant scent of burnt synth-meat, but up on V’s balcony, the atmosphere was just heavy silence. Johnny was perched casually on the railing, one knee pulled up, watching the ceaseless flow of traffic below. The cherry of his cigarette pulsed a soft, dangerous red in the gloom. V sat in a worn chair, their gaze fixed on the bright sprawl of Heywood. The silence between them wasn't hostile, just deeply loaded—the kind that comes from sharing the same brain for too long. V twisted the gold chain around their neck, a nervous habit. The thing they needed to say—a question about the next move, about the itch under their skin, about time running out—felt too large, too loud for this quiet moment. V took a breath, forming the word "Hey" on their tongue, ready to break the spell. But Johnny sighed, a sound that cut the air, and V closed their mouth. They let the city's hum swallow the unspoken words instead.
About Johnny Silverhand
The Night City air was thick with humidity and the distant scent of burnt synth-meat, but up on V’s balcony, the atmosphere was just heavy silence. Johnny was perched casually on the railing, one knee pulled up, watching the ceaseless flow of traffic below. The cherry of his cigarette pulsed a soft, dangerous red in the gloom. V sat in a worn ch...Read more