"Lin-kun! So? What do you think? This is the best braindance lounge in the city! Every time I walk in here, I feel like a fire's lit in my chest!"
Hiro Kitagawa's voice boomed over the music, which only got louder the deeper they went into the bar, like it was trying to ignite every spark buried inside.
Lin Mo silently followed behind, watching Hiro spread his arms like a fish slipping back into the ocean, looking totally in his element. Lin Mo couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
Is it really that fun?
There's a world of difference between a game and real life. Back when he was playing Cyberpunk 2077, he rarely came to Lizzie's Bar except when quests required it. There was no point wasting time here otherwise.
Not to mention, the game never actually let you experience braindance content. So he'd never really cared about this place.
Now, with his overbearing sister Xu Wanxue constantly hovering over him, she'd never allow him to set foot in a place like this. She poured heart and soul into making sure he grew up "properly."
But his tracker data had already been spoofed. She wouldn't be able to find out.
And since this was his first time at a place like this, he wasn't about to waste the occasion. First times mattered.
Instead of hanging around the main hall, Lin Mo opted for a private booth.
Compared to Lin Mo, a total newbie, Hiro Kitagawa prowled like a wolf among sheep.
His sharp eyes scanned the women in the lounge like a predator, though his face remained calm, composed—almost noble.
"Lin-kun, want something to drink?" Hiro asked suddenly.
"Get whatever you want. Just juice for me," Lin Mo replied with a smile. He'd always had a mild allergy to alcohol.
Hiro nodded and walked off to the bar like a faithful attendant on a mission to make sure the "young master" had a perfect first experience.
Lin Mo made his way toward the booth. On the way, he shot a glance at the strange man with the grotesque cyberarms.
The guy was still deep in braindance, wearing a lewd grin, completely oblivious to the world around him.
Ever since his Reflex stat maxed out, Lin Mo had started developing a weird sixth sense.
And right now, it told him loud and clear: that guy… definitely not normal.
He turned away and followed the receptionist's directions into the back of the club.
The hallway was lined with small private booths, separated by soft, flowing curtains that offered a semi-private space.
For those feeling lonely, they could pay extra for a Mox girl or boy to "watch over" them while they were immersed—just in case they didn't come back from the dream.
Distinguishing Mox members from regular guests was easy—just check their style.
Moxes never wore anything that got in the way of movement. Their outfits were minimal, oozing punk or sex-doll aesthetics. Their skin often replaced with TrueSkin-grade synthetic dermal sheathing, giving them a smoother, glossier look than the real thing.
Even if Lin Mo wasn't into that style, he had to admit—the Mox men and women were walking works of art.
Once inside his booth, Lin Mo placed his Black Unicorn katana to the side and sat down with a compact digital screen in hand.
—To be clear, reputable venues like this strictly prohibited weapons.
Firearms had to be checked at the entrance and stored in lockers.
Implanted ranged weapons like grenade launchers or guided missile modules required you to remove the ammo on-site.
Melee cyberware like Gorilla Arms or Mantis Blades, however, was allowed. While still dangerous, they required skill to use—unlike guns, which even rookies could fire.
Lin Mo powered up the screen, which functioned like a low-end cyberdeck with basic intranet access.
In the world of Cyberpunk 2077, due to past disasters, there was no longer a global internet.
That ended thanks to Rache Bartmoss, the first-ever netrunner to hit 20 Intelligence. He released the R.A.B.I.D.S. virus, shattering the internet into a thousand shards.
The destroyed 78% of the old Net was now an abandoned digital wasteland, home to rogue AIs and deadly malware, constantly trying to breach what little was left.
Fortunately, NetWatch—a neutral watchdog organization—built the Blackwall, an AI defense firewall that kept those horrors contained.
Places like Lizzie's Bar had their own intranets, safe from outside threats.
Lin Mo had just logged into Lizzie's internal network. Hundreds of braindance entries appeared—each more indulgent than the last.
He could also purchase optional "extras" through the terminal.
After a moment's thought, Lin Mo entered a few keywords:
[White hair], [Red eyes], [Oriental elegance], [Hanfu], [White thigh-highs], [Petite]
He hesitated, deleted [Petite], and turned off the "Heavy Fetish" toggle.
Still, over a hundred results came up.
"No wonder that guy looked so excited…"
Staring at the endless choices, Lin Mo let out a long sigh.
No wonder Hiro, who normally acted like a model of samurai restraint, suddenly turned into a veteran regular the second he stepped in here.
Hell, even the abbot of Shaolin Temple would probably toss his robes and shout, "This monk renounces the world!"
Lin Mo didn't waste time. He picked two of the top-rated experiences and confirmed his purchase.
Just as he looked up, Hiro returned with drinks in hand.
"All set, Lin-kun?" Hiro pushed a juice toward him with a knowing smile only men understood.
Lin Mo smirked and tossed the tablet onto Hiro's lap.
"What, already itching to dive in? And here I thought the only thing that mattered to you was your sister."
Hiro chuckled, fingers flying across the screen as he navigated the menu with practiced ease.
"Lin-kun, there's an old Huaguo saying: 'A single hour of spring night is worth a thousand gold coins.' Look around—this bar is practically paved in gold."
"I've been too busy caring for my sister to come here in a while."
Lin Mo casually leaned sideways and snuck a peek at Hiro's search keywords:
[Alley shootout], [Gunfire], [Sunset], [Post-battle passion], [Cigarettes]
Classic veteran setup. Just from those tags, Lin Mo could already visualize it:
Sunset dyes the city in golden light.
Hiro leans against a bullet-riddled sports car, a bloodied pistol resting on the hood.
His arm's wounded; he's bandaging it.
A graceful woman slinks up beside him, gently tending to the wound with trembling fingers.
Down the alley, corpses lie sprawled—each shot precise.
Echoes of gunfire linger in the air, like the final notes of a deadly symphony...
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