CYBERPUNK: Travel to 2075

The super skyscraper where Karl had stepped out was situated in the Watson District of Night City. As he sifted through his memories, fragments of information about the area surfaced in his mind.

Watson District had once been a thriving industrial hub, home to skyscrapers, nightclubs, corporate buildings, advanced medical centers, and bustling food streets. At its peak, it was considered the heart of Night City. However, the financial crisis decimated the area, leaving it in ruins. Now, Watson was the poorest neighborhood in the city, controlled by vicious gangs like the Tiger Claw Gang and the Vortex Gang, who roamed the streets unchecked.

Even the Night City Police Department (NCPD) considered it a high-risk zone.

> NCPD Danger Level Assessment: Extremely Dangerous

"Well, lucky me," Karl muttered sarcastically, realizing he'd landed in one of the city's most hazardous areas.

His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. Hunger was a pressing concern, and he spotted several food stalls ahead. Judging by the signs, they specialized in East Asian cuisine—a small comfort in an otherwise alien world.

It made sense, considering he was now in Little Chinatown.

> Little Chinatown: Once envisioned as the city's second central hub during reconstruction efforts, it became a haven for East Asian immigrants, primarily Chinese, in the 2040s. However, as Watson District declined, so too did Little Chinatown, turning it into another impoverished area of Night City.

Karl approached a food stall, scanning the worn-down establishment. Yellowed cushions with brown sponge spilling out, greasy countertops dotted with remnants of past meals—it was far from hygienic. After some searching, he found a seat that was marginally clean and sat down.

Across the stall, a few other patrons were eating, their faces expressionless but alert. The owner, busy preparing their food, glanced at Karl and said, "Menus are on the screen. Just let me know when you've decided."

Karl followed the man's gesture to a display screen embedded in the tabletop. The screen showcased a variety of dishes alongside their prices. The pictures made the food look surprisingly appetizing, but Karl knew better.

In this world, fresh organic food was a luxury reserved for the upper class. The average citizen subsisted on protein farms' produce and factory-made food—artificial meats, hydroponic vegetables, and synthetic spices. He winced as he recalled what he'd read: the base ingredients for these "foods" often included worms, algae, and other unappealing sources.

Some unregulated factories might even use actual meat, but in this era, even rats were considered rare delicacies. Contaminated or not, rat meat was a commodity that could spark envy.

Determined not to traumatize his taste buds, Karl settled on a vegetarian option.

He noticed a dish labeled "Chinese Cold Noodles." Judging from the photo, it seemed the safest bet. Though traditionally made with chicken or beef broth, this version was likely vegetarian—thanks to cost efficiency rather than any ethical considerations.

The noodles themselves were made from genetically modified wheat cultivated by Petrochem, one of the few megacorporations permitted to grow wheat commercially. This modified grain served as the base for CHOOH2, a synthetic alcohol that had become the world's dominant fuel source. Surplus wheat was either sold to food manufacturers or donated to impoverished countries under the guise of "humanitarian aid."

With Night City bordering Petrochem's farmlands, it wasn't surprising that genetically modified wheat was readily available for food production here. Despite its industrial origins, Karl had heard it was surprisingly palatable.

"Three euros," he muttered, noting the price. In a poor district like Watson, it was a reasonable amount for a simple meal. Though the euro had clearly been inflated over the years, it still felt comparable to its value back in his previous life.

"Boss, one Chinese Cold Noodle, please," Karl said, pulling out the cash.

But just as he handed over the money, chaos erupted.

A deafening boom rang out, and the stall owner's head exploded in a violent spray of blood and bone. The fragments splattered across Karl's face, mixing with an unknown liquid that blurred his vision.

Blinking to clear his eyes, Karl saw the boss's lifeless body slump to the ground.

"Fuck you, Sixth Street Gang! You dare invade Vortex Gang territory? I'll split you open!"

The shout came from a distance, followed by the rapid pop of gunfire.

Karl glanced around. The patrons who had been sitting opposite him had already ducked under the tables, moving with practiced ease. Their swift, mechanical reactions made it clear this wasn't their first gang shootout.

As more gunshots echoed, Karl pieced together what had happened.

Two gangs had started a firefight nearby, and the poor stall owner had taken a stray bullet. If that bullet had hit Karl instead, his own head would've been blown apart.

"Great," he muttered darkly, wiping the blood from his face. "How the hell is anyone supposed to adapt to this?"

He reached for the Lexington pistol hidden under his coat, gripping it tightly.

He had just wanted a simple meal. Now, he was in the middle of a gang war.

"You can't even eat in peace," Karl growled, anger surging as he crouched behind the table for cover. "I'm going to kill every last one of you bastards."