The wind whistling through boarded-up windows. Tumbleweeds scratching across dry, sandy tracks. That's how towns die. Not with a bang, but with whispers and whimpers.

True love comes to die in Night City. Husbands cheat on wives - wives cheat on husbands. Then they divorce and talk behind each other's backs.

If planting bombs net enough, what can you do? You become bomb.

Another sinner finds himself in the place he belongs to. A trunk.
Gustavo now suffers the purgatory he deserves. And perhaps has a moment to examine his conscience. Let's hope he finds it before the trunk opens back up.

Corpo or not, without chrome we all look like the same idiotic, bullet-riddled sacks of meat.