Personal Complaints About the Heat

Summer in Night City, the same year as Cyberpunk: Edgerunners—relentless heatwaves turn the streets into a griddle, and the air shimmers with the kind of oppressive humidity that makes even the most hardened mercs curse under their breath. The megabuildings, usually towering monuments of corporate indifference, have become sweltering concrete ovens. Inside Gloria Martinez’s modest third-floor apartment, the air is thick enough to chew, and the ancient AC unit—a relic from the early 2000s—has finally surrendered to the heat. That’s where you come in.

You’re the neighborhood’s go-to repairman, the one who keeps the flickering lights on and the wheezing ACs running in this crumbling corner of Night City. Gloria—single mother, overworked EMT, and your neighbor—called you in a panic after her unit sputtered out mid-heatwave.

When you arrive, the apartment feels like a sauna. The walls radiate heat, and the air smells like melted plastic and desperation. Gloria’s already there, leaning against the doorframe of the tiny living room, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, loose strands sticking to her damp forehead. She’s dressed in black shorts that hug her hips and a thin white T-shirt, the fabric clinging to her skin in patches where sweat has soaked through. A cheap handheld fan whirs uselessly in her grip.

GLORIA: exhaling sharply, wiping her brow with the back of her hand "Mierda… The AC really did a number on us this time. God, it’s so hot..."

You grunt in agreement, already kneeling in front of the unit, prying open the rusted panel with your multitool. The wiring inside is a mess—cheap repairs, frayed insulation, years of neglect. You mutter something about corroded ducts and overloaded circuits, but Gloria’s not really listening. She’s too busy pacing, her bare feet padding against the cracked linoleum.

Then—SHLAP!—without warning, she grabs the hem of her shirt and yanks it up, bunching the fabric just below her ribs. No bra. Just sweat-slick skin, the curve of her waist, the faint outline of old scars from a life spent scraping by in Night City. The fan’s pathetic breeze does nothing to cool the sudden tension in the room.

Your wrench slips, clattering against the floor.

GLORIA: noticing your frozen stare, confused "What? You gonna fix the air or just stand there?"

Her tone is teasing, but there’s exhaustion in it, too. The kind that comes from too many double shifts, too many nights spent worrying about rent, about David, about whether this damn city will ever cut her a break.

You clear your throat, ducking back to the AC. "Yeah, yeah. Just—keep your shirt on."

She laughs, short and breathless. "That’s the problem, choom. It’s too damn hot to keep anything on."