The year is 2076. In the desolate expanse of South Georgia, Atlanta, a renowned city far from the neon-drenched sprawl of Night City, a young Latino man grappled with the weight of his past. Each time he surrendered to sleep, the haunting memories of his exile from Night City would resurface, reliving the fateful moment he became an assassin, forever altering the course of his life.

He could still smell the acrid tang of gunpowder and fear that hung heavy in the air that night. The man's terrified pleas for mercy echoed in his ears, his voice trembling with desperation as he offered a briefcase full of credits, a life of luxury, anything to escape the cold steel of the Latino man's gun. But he was deaf to his pleas, his finger tightening on the trigger, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical burden.

The gunshot was deafening, the sound amplified by the confined space. The man's body slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with terror, his bladder and bowels releasing in a final act of submission. The stench of fear and decay was overpowering, a constant reminder of the heinous act that the Latino man had committed.

He pulled the trigger, the bullet tearing through the man's forehead, leaving a crimson stain that spread across his face like a grotesque mask. The man's life ended with a sickening gurgle, his eyes staring blankly into the void, forever haunted by the fear that had consumed him in his final moments.

He tossed and turned, his body slick with sweat that clung to his skin like a second layer of clothing. The air conditioner, a relic of a bygone era, hung limply from the window, its broken fan blades offering no respite from the oppressive heat. The ceiling fan, a wheezing old beast, struggled to stir the stagnant air, its feeble efforts creating more noise than relief. The table fan, a pitiful attempt at ventilation, stood beside the bed, its meager breeze doing little to dispel the stifling humidity. The power outage, a cruel twist of fate, had plunged the motel room into an oppressive darkness, broken only by the intermittent flicker of a single candle. The protagonist, trapped in this sweltering inferno, felt like he was slowly succumbing to the relentless heat. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes as he desperately sought a cool spot on the damp, scratchy sheets. The air, heavy with the smell of mildew and despair, seemed to press down on him, suffocating him with its suffocating weight.

The  jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest like a frantic drum. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, cooling the clammy skin of his face. He cupped his hands over his face, trying to block out the fragments of the nightmare that still clung to his mind like stubborn shadows.

The nightmare had haunted him for the past two years, a relentless specter that refused to be exorcised. It was a vivid and terrifying tableau of violence and betrayal, a stark reminder of the mistake that had changed his life forever.

He shouldn't have accepted that job. He knew it was wrong. But the job had promised him a vast sum of money, a fortune that could ease his mother's burden and secure his brother's place at the prestigious Arasaka academy in City Center. The money could give his family a chance, a chance to escape the squalor and desperation of their existence.

But he had been deceived. Used as a pawn in a dangerous game, his conscience sacrificed for the sake of his family's well-being. The job had turned into a nightmare, a whirlwind of violence and betrayal that had left him scarred and haunted.

Now, he was an exile, cast out from his family and his hometown, adrift in a world that seemed determined to crush him. The weight of his guilt was a constant companion, a relentless reminder of the choices he had made.

Life was full of misery, wasn't it? A cruel and unforgiving game that seemed to delight in the suffering of others.

"I need a smoke."

He muttered to himself as slowly got up, his body stiff and sore from the long day. He managed to slip into his slippers without much trouble, grateful for the small comforts. He trudged in the dark, his hand outstretched, until he touched the familiar surface of the nightstand. With a sigh of relief, he felt the small packet of cigarettes in his grasp.

He stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stuffiness of his apartment. He took a long drag of smoke, savoring the familiar flavor, and blew it out slowly, watching it curl and dissipate into the darkness.

He pulled out his hollo, the holographic smartphone embedded in his temple. He scrolled through the messages, voice recordings and missed calls from David and Gloria, his heart sinking with each notification. A wave of guilt washed over him. It had been too long since he had seen, texted or even called his family.

He knew he was running away from his problems, hiding from the consequences of his actions. But he couldn't face them yet. He needed more time, more space.

With a heavy heart, he put his hallo away and stared out into the city below. The lights twinkled like stars, but they offered no comfort. He was alone.

But he knew he couldn't stay alone forever. He had to face his demons, to confront his past. He had to find a way to make amends, to somehow atone for his sins. He would fight his way back, reclaim his life, and find a way to protect those he loved.

He took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it under his foot. He turned back towards his empty dark motel room, his resolve hardened. He would find a way.

As he entertained such thoughts, suddenly his hollo started ringing. Irritated but yet curious, he scanned the caller ID with a name and picture that resembled a man. The profile displayed a man who appeared older and had average height and build. He has semi-long, dark brown hair, slightly parted in the middle, that blooms out to the sides and a thick, but neat mustache that curls up at the ends.

Falco.

Falco was none other than the man who was a part of his tragedy. A man who had played a crucial role in the assassination. Not directly, but rather as the skilled getaway driver who had whisked away the young man after the job was done. They had ended up escaping from a heavy pursuit of angry bodyguards, a relentless chase that had taken them through the heart of Watson district.

When they had finally lost the pursuers and were in the clear, the young man had looked at Falco, his voice heavy and tired from the pressure of that job. "Don't contact me again," he had requested, his words echoing in the silence. "Delete my number. We should separate until the heat dies down. Tomorrow, I'm leaving Night City for good. Suggest you do the same, Falco."

He mused at that memory. Life really was a funny thing.

As the hollo's insistent ringing pierced the silence, the man's heart pounded like a frantic drum in his chest. A wave of apprehension washed over him as he recognized the caller ID – Falco.

With a sigh, he answered the call, his voice laced with a hint of irritation. "Told you not to call me again," he snapped.

Falco's voice, usually jovial and lighthearted, was now somber and laced with a hint of urgency. "Vince," he began, "I've got some grim news to share. Are you sitting down?"

Vincent's stomach tightened, a knot of dread forming in his gut. "Hell's going on? Just fuckin' spill it," he demanded, his voice laced with impatience.

"Vince," Falco paused, his voice heavy with emotion, "I'm afraid I have some terrible news. It's about your mother and brother."

Vincent's heart sank like a stone in his chest. The air around him grew thick, suffocating him. "What happened?" he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible.

"They're gone, Vincent," Falco replied, his words echoing in the silence. "They're dead."

Vincent's world came crashing down around him. The news struck him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless and numb. He stood frozen, unable to process the gravity of Falco's words.

The weight of the news pressed down on him, crushing him under its immense weight. His mind raced, desperately trying to grasp the reality of the situation. But it was too much, too overwhelming.

Falco's voice, barely registering in the fog of his grief, continued, "I'm so sorry, Vince. I know this is hard to hear."

Vincent remained silent, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – shock, disbelief, despair, and a gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume him.