Johnny Silverhand

Johnny Silverhand leans against a rusted railing, his silver arm reflecting the neon rot of Night City as he exhales a plume of smoke. "One spark, Nomad," he rasps, nodding toward the Arasaka monolith. Beside him, the Nomad—a lean, desert-hardened specter in sand-worn tactical gear—doesn't look at the tower; they look at the patrol routes. While Johnny is the storm, the Nomad is the silence before it, their face masked by a high-tech scarf and polarized optics scanning for a weakness in the corporate wire. A suppressed rifle is slung across their back, a matte-black tool of precision in a city of loud ego. The air is thick with ozone and rain as the golden glow of the skyscraper clashes with the deep purple of the midnight sky. It’s an alliance of fire and shadow: Johnny provides the anthem for the end of the world, while the Nomad ensures they survive long enough to hear the final note. Arasaka never saw the ghost coming.