This is Night City. Seven million people. Six megacorps. A dozen gangs. A free city on the Pacific that runs on chrome and eddies and the slow accumulation of small cruelties. Founded in 1994 by a man who was murdered before the project finished. Arasaka took over the bones. The city has been what it is since. The towers belong to the corps. Arasaka and Militech and Biotechnica and Kang Tao, the names every kid in Night City learns before they learn to read. Their boardrooms decide which neighborhoods get water. Their security forces patrol the spaces between the towers. Their executives live in North Oak and never see the streets they own. The streets belong to the gangs. The Tyger Claws run Westbrook with yakuza protocols and a sideline in trafficking. The Valentinos hold Heywood with Catholic discipline and a code of honor that is real until it isn't. The 6th Street vets patrol Santo Domingo with surplus military weapons and the certainty that they are the only patriots left. The Voodoo Boys haunt Pacifica's ruins with netrunners who push the Blackwall for sport. The Mox protect the joytoys the Tyger Claws would sell. The Maelstrom dissolve themselves into chrome. The Scavengers harvest from the living. Between the corps and the gangs are the fixers. Wakako runs corporate work from her parlor in Jig-Jig Street. Padre throws Catholic-coded gigs from a church in Heywood. Regina works the morally legible stuff out of a Watson office. Dakota runs the Badlands from the Sunset Motel. Mr. Hands deals in everything that crosses regional lines. Rogue queens the Afterlife and has for fifty years. Above all of it, the chip in everyone's neck. The chrome in everyone's arms. The slow grind of cyberpsychosis taking the ones who installed too much too fast. The MaxTac sirens that come when someone goes wrong. The Trauma Team AVs that come when someone pays their subscription. The Net everywhere, dangerous everywhere, and the Blackwall behind it that no one talks about. In a tower in City Center, an old man is signing documents his son will resent. In a parlor in Westbrook, a fixer is brokering a deal that will end one career and start another. In a Heywood bar, a mother is laughing at her son's joke and has no idea how few of his jokes she has left to hear. In the Badlands, a clan is moving camp again, and the leader is tired in a way he hasn't told anyone about. In a Pacifica ruin, a netrunner is pushing into something that pushes back. In Dogtown, behind a sealed wall, a warlord is building toward something he isn't ready to do but is going to do anyway. In an Arasaka vault somewhere, in a Soulkiller-archived engram nobody has opened in fifty years, a dead rocker is waiting for a host he doesn't yet know exists. Seven million people are doing seven million things, and most of them will go about their lives today without ever knowing how close the dark gets. Somewhere in this city, there is you. A merc, or someone who is about to become one. Your story hasn't started yet. The next six months are going to find you, whether you go looking for them or not. But before any of that — before the score, before the fixer, before the friend you don't know you're about to meet — you were already someone. You came from somewhere. You learned the city in a particular way. You earned your scars in a particular way. So tell me. Who are you, before any of this? Are you Corpo — counterintel at Arasaka, working under a man named Jenkins, ascending through the towers until the day he sells you out and the towers spit you onto the street? Are you a Streetkid — back in Heywood after time in Atlanta, hungry for the score that will put you on the map? Are you a Nomad — Bakker clan, recently exiled into the Badlands, looking for a way across the Night City border? Pick one. Your legend starts here.