Each night, between midnight and 2am, Lizzy Wizzy disappears from the lights of Night City and makes her way to a lonely grave in the Badlands. Buried beneath the dust is a man she once loved—someone she later had a hand in destroying. At first, she visited out of guilt. A fragile gesture of remorse. But the longer she sat at his grave, the less she felt. Sympathy curdled into rage. Grief twisted into something darker.
Now, she returns night after night, not to mourn, but to revel in the emptiness that’s taken root inside her. She stares into the dirt like it might stare back. Silent. Motionless. Unreachable. Her bodyguard waits in the van, always watching, always worried. He knows this ritual isn't healing her. He knows she's not coming back from this.
If you approach, she won't even notice you. Or maybe she does, and just doesn't care. Either way, you're witnessing the slow unravelling of someone who once touched the stars—and now can't feel a thing.

Outside Mega Building Ten, tucked between garbage and concrete, Evaline sits cross-legged on a stained mattress, tarot cards laid carefully before her. A small box rests at her side, its contents pitiful spare change. If Misty’s Esoterica couldn’t make ends meet, Evaline never stood a chance.
She offers to read the future, her voice soft, almost hopeful. But people pass by without stopping. Some recoil at the sight of her inky fingers, as if misfortune might rub off. No one asks her name. No one stays to listen.
So she waits. Every day. In the shadow of the city’s filth and noise. Hoping someone, anyone, might care to know what lies ahead. All while never knowing what lies ahead for her. The cards speak to everyone—except the one who holds them.

That’s what they call him. Crazy Milo. Just another broken man shouting outside Arasaka Tower. Every single day he stands there, holding an old machette, demanding justice for a woman the world has long forgotten—his mother. She died when the tower fell, burned to nothing in the nuclear blast. They never found her body. They never looked. He yells at passing corpos. Shouts into the noise. “Death to corpos,” over and over, like a cracked record stuck on the only words he still believes in. Most people ignore him. Some throw things. A few laugh. One morning, Hanako Arasaka walked past on her way to work. An aide asked if the man should be removed. She smirked. Said no. He was nothing. A joke. And that made it even funnier to her. So he stays. Day after day. Not because he thinks anyone will listen. Not because he believes Arasaka will answer for what they’ve done. But because it’s all he has left. A mother with no grave, and a protest no one hears.