Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 807, Section 17: Young People and the Barbecue Restaurant

Leaving get off work at 10:20 PM is practically a luxury in Night City.

Even though their standard working hours have already been stretched to the numbingly long hours of 7 a.m. to 9:30 p.m., the extra 50 minutes of overtime that they squeeze out would be considered "humane management" in other companies.

In a giant corporation like biotechnology, employees are able to get through the entire workday solely on their natural brains and basic physiological functions—without needing stimulants to stay awake, without relying on neurostimulants to force concentration, and even maintaining relatively stable work efficiency. This level of leniency is almost absurd in Night City's workplace ecosystem, resembling a dark humor of corporate welfare.

Carl had once read a ranking of Night City's corporate benefits.

Biotechnology barely squeezed into the bronze position of the welfare ranking thanks to its "generous" policy of six days of paid vacation per year, while the top-ranked Arasaka Group firmly held the first place with its "ultimate care" of "those with 20 years of service can enjoy the latest prosthetic body".

Military technology followed closely behind, and their employees enjoyed the privilege of purchasing weapons at a 50% discount—in a sense, this was quite in line with their corporate culture.

Carl had to admit that he had no interest in the so-called 'benefits' that these companies touted so much—Arasaka's prosthetics were basically used as guinea pigs, and the discounted military technology weapons were just a way to deal with stockpiled inventory. But at this moment, the biotechnology policy, which allowed employees to work short hours, was actually helping him a lot.

Eight hours and thirty-seven minutes.

This is the precise gap before the next shift begins.

It was enough time for him to turn that suspicious warehouse upside down, and even allow him extra time to deal with any emergencies.

His gaze swept over the departing employees and suddenly caught sight of a small group of people gathered at the edge of the parking lot.

Five or six young men in warehouse keeper uniforms were gesturing enthusiastically, their eyes sparkling and the corners of their mouths unconsciously curving upwards—they were clearly planning an impromptu dinner.

Even with their rest time compressed to just over eight hours, even with early arrivals, and even with perpetual lack of sleep, there are always people who stubbornly try to squeeze out every bit of happiness in whatever way they can.

Carl noticed that they were heading in the direction of a barbecue restaurant.

The alcohol, along with the sizzling synthetic meat on the grill, and the rising smoke, might weave a warm illusion.

The illusion was so vivid that even when they stumbled home at 3 a.m. and then slept for two hours to cope with the jarring alarm clock at 6 a.m., they could still savor the feeling of being alive.

Perhaps it is this self-deceptive spiritual comfort that makes such an inhuman work pace barely bearable.

Carl had seen plenty of these kinds of things in Night City, or rather, he had seen plenty even before he came to Night City.

Work is hard enough as it is; if there's nothing to comfort you, you might really break down.

Even if it doesn't turn into cyberpsychosis, the repressed pain is enough to earn someone the label of a madman.

Karl smiled slightly.

The smile wasn't wide, and it didn't carry much emotion. Carl smiled because he sensed that those young people around his age were genuinely enjoying their time after get off work; the smile lacked emotion because Carl didn't find finding joy in hardship particularly funny.

The laughter was simply for their own happiness; there was nothing funny about it.

Neither their hard work nor their jobs are laughable in any way.

Carl's figure disappeared on the rooftop.

He did not choose to jump down, but instead chose to take the stairs.

Carl walked down the stairs and blended seamlessly into the group of noisy young people. They still smelled of sweat from work, but they were already eagerly discussing how many draft beers they wanted to drink.

He followed the crowd into the small shop that smelled of roasted meat—there was still plenty of time, and rather than rashly barging into the unknown warehouse, he might as well listen to what useful information these guys who came in and out of the warehouse every day could come up with.

People tend to relax under the influence of alcohol and oil. The grievances from being scolded by their supervisors during the day, dissatisfaction with their work, and even complaints about certain suspicious goods all become the best seasoning for a meal. Carl understood this psychology all too well, after all, the dining table is always the best source of information.

not to mention.
He was also a little hungry.

The barbecue restaurant on Coronado Farm is not large. Rather, the fact that it could choose to open in such an economically disadvantaged place suggests that the owner is very likely a local. If it weren't a local, it would be impossible to survive in such an environment with gangs.

The city's infamous slums are right around here.

Carl sat not far from the group of his peers. He was a blond young man, a look modeled after Oliver. His blue eyes quickly scanned the shop.

The shop wasn't big, roughly the size of a basketball court. It was about half full of customers. For this time of day and place, the business was quite good, although the smell inside was a little strange.

The synthetic meat sizzled on the grill, and the smell of oil and seasonings emanating from it as it curled up, mixed with the pungent smell of industrial alcohol, fermented in the poorly ventilated shop into a smell similar to rotten wood mixed with the putrid stench of sour orange. However, considering the raw materials of synthetic meat, this smell did not seem too bad.

The shop owner was a middle-aged man with an old-fashioned prosthetic arm in his right arm. Carl noticed a mark on his exposed arm, a mark often seen on veterans who had experienced the unification wars.

It seems that this shop owner was once a soldier loyal to the new America, but it's unclear why he later chose to open a shop in Santo Domingo. Perhaps he was originally from Santo Domingo, and because the unification war failed to achieve unification, he returned to Santo Domingo to open his business.

The shop owner noticed Carl's unfamiliar face, but Santo Domingo was a place where outsiders often came, so he didn't pay much attention. He simply gestured to the ordering device on the table, indicating that Carl could use it to order.

Each table was equipped with a grill, and underneath it was fuel made from the residue of wheat industrial extraction. Although this fuel was not suitable for use in normal vehicles, it was still adequate for grilling meat. Carl had tried this fuel before, and the meat grilled with it had a wheat aroma, although it also had a strong smell of industrial chemicals.

For Carl now, he can adapt.

So, what kind of meat should we try?
(End of this chapter)