Chapter Twenty-Six

You had withdrawn a great deal of money from an ATM near work; the ones near your homes had limits and were usually always out, owing to the local's constant efforts to avoid hard labour and hack their way into paying rent.

Twelve hundred Eurodollars is a tidy sum, enough for one to afford their monthly commute and have enough for a lunchtime sandwich.

It was more than what she'd need.

Of course, Night City may be a heartless cosmopolitan shithole, bereft of compassion or consideration for the poor, but that didn't mean they didn't have student discounts.

But, there were some things one needed to purchase without the knowledge and overbearing concern of a parent; Lord knows you were in her position once upon a time, at least, that's how you justified it to yourself, having felt physical pain when drawing out so much money.

You could not bear to cast eyes upon your remaining account balance after that and shed metaphorical tears, mourning the costs of raising children in Night City.

You've been through this song and dance before, the utilities and rent are tied to a direct debit; the spare card that your mom possesses for your bank account is functional, and you've purchased some frozen foods in the event that she has to work overtime and Chloe needs to make dinner.

You don't need a will; you don't have many worldly possessions, and being your next-of-kin, mom will inherit your pension; how little that will be.

It was as if you were making arrangements for your funeral; that was the level of morose introspection you were experiencing, seated in the living room, the ratty couch, whose coarse cream-brown textures would never have indicated it was once crimson leather.

At least, that's what the seller on the web said when you bought it for a bargain.

You heard the doorknob shake, the loose components jiggling and clinking as the front door opened, revealing your younger sister, with those oversized pink headphones glued to her ears, returning home after a hard day of mediocrity at school.

She kicks the door violently shut behind her, not bothering to turn back, revealing the likely cause of why the lock seemed so worn after having recently replaced it.

So absorbed in her music, eyes clung shut amid escapism, and accustomed to navigating the internals of the apartment, she hadn't realised you were waiting for her until she started kicking off her shoes, and throwing herself on the sofa, back-first.

When her head hit flesh rather than cushions, she knew she fucked up; her eyes slowly opened as if she had to convince herself that keeping them shut won't make the outside world go away, allowing her to lock gazes with you.

Your head hovered over hers, a displeased expression plastered across your face, the girl frozen, head resting on your lap as she tried to figure out a way to avoid the oncoming storm.

"Hi?"

Tried and failed in that attempt.