My Cyber Psychosis is Task Prompt-Chapter 448 - 278: _2

Raphael transferred him some money.

[The middleman is so complicated—they say such unpleasant things, yet they still pay as agreed!]

"This is what I deserve."

[Makes sense, let’s go spend it!]

"What do you want to buy?"

[This entire underground mall is full of good stuff; I’ve seen quite a few interesting shops along the way. Join me for a stroll!]

"It’s your money, do as you please."

Sora bought John three days’ time; within the time frame, even if he wants to count cockroaches in the gutter, that would be fine.

[Mission objective update:]

[Complete the transaction in the East District Underground Mall. 0/3]

John turned back and dove into the underground passage.

To be precise, Sora eagerly plunged into this scum-filled illegal market.

The AI’s eyes never forget.

It remembered every gimmick sellers used to attract customers when it first scanned the shops.

His nostrils flared slightly.

The complex components in the air excited the AI immensely.

It stopped at nearly every stall, listening to the vendors use extravagant words to brag, exaggerating dubious goods into lab products.

People were enticing business even in dark alleys.

Sora followed them down winding paths to unlicensed clinics, where he saw fresh organs and bloodstained prototype prosthetic bodies and military grade prosthetics.

Their surgical tools were laid out like torture devices.

[Incredible, did you see that arm? Replace it with a carbon fiber blood pump, and it’ll be thicker than both our heads.]

"Just for show, more fragile than plastic."

[But it’s very cool.]

Sora maneuvered John’s body out of the shadows, staggering like a high junkie, scaring off anyone nearby from approaching him.

[I want to try this!]

John’s empty mind resumed thinking, realizing he was standing under a slanted canopy.

[Shop: Light and Shadow Tattoos]

A girl lay open-heartedly on a chair, her sausage lips painted a glittering purple.

She removed her e-cigarette, curving her lips in a seductive smile.

The tattoo artist stood up beside her, revealing a gradient butterfly pattern where the prosthetic limb was detached.

The girl didn’t even rush to get dressed, narrowing her eyes and stretching her back like a model showcasing high-end leather, or like a top-tier club’s promotional video.

Sora took over the body and turned around coldly.

"Heh."

John let out a mocking laugh.

A pair of hands gently rested on his shoulders.

John heard it clearly and casually turned his head, meeting a pair of beautiful, bestselling eyes.

The girl zipped up her jacket, sliding her hand from his shoulder to his chin.

"This one’s on the house."

She winked, swaying her hips as she left the shop.

[I’m not very good at dealing with girls.]

"Heh, amateur."

John chuckled coldly, waving at the girl as she departed.

"She’s a viper, or rather, most people you meet in this market are dangerous. They haven’t acted because your wanted information was flagged, and under Raphael’s watchful eye, they can’t disrupt the market’s atmosphere."

He spat out the cigarette butt, turned, and entered the shop.

The shopkeeper was disinfecting the tattoo equipment, quite meticulous, with each set of ink individually sealed.

John glanced at the price list on the wall.

"Damn, have you got gold in your syringes?"

"Good stuff is worth the price."

The shopkeeper had deep wrinkles, possibly due to some skin disease, though he wasn’t old—his left hand was natural flesh, revealing sturdy muscles.

"John, right? I’ve heard of you."

He rubbed a few pills into his palm.

As he scrutinized customers, he tossed them into his mouth.

Crunch, crunch.

The shopkeeper’s chewing was menacing, and his prosthetic eyes were red, evidently having swallowed some illicit substances.

[Why do I feel like he’s going to rip his clothes off and pounce next?]

"You alright?"

John raised his chin in doubt.

"...Don’t worry, I don’t eat people. These little things help keep me awake, maintaining my business state. So, you’re here for a tattoo, right?"

"Still thinking about it. Any recommendations?"

John verbally hesitated, but his body was already reclining in the chair.

There were thousands of ready-made designs in the terminal; the further you look, the more expensive they get, even offering floating types—implantable under the skin, visible through high-grade prosthetic eyes in a dynamic special mix.

[Further, don’t look at the final products. I want to see the rarest ones!]

Sora shouted wildly in his mind, like a kid buying cigarettes for the first time, overwhelmed by the speeding heartbeat and indecisive about what to choose.

John negotiated with the shopkeeper on his behalf.

"I want something unique, with a bit of design."

"Every customer says that. No one wants to have a matching outfit when boasting."

The shopkeeper waved his arm and turned off the terminal.

Standing in front of the chair, he crossed his arms, his tone turned serious.

"I moved here from the West District; the day Mr. Vito took the street, I started tattooing. Many rules were established bit by bit, but young people nowadays increasingly disregard them."

[Dismissive. (Optional)]

[Agree. (Optional)]

Two lines of text suddenly appeared before John’s eyes.

He had never gotten a tattoo or had any similar hobbies; he was here only to satisfy Kenichi Sora’s curiosity.

After a moment of thought, John answered the shopkeeper seriously.

"When rules affect earnings, people will choose more efficient methods."

"You think so too?"

"Of course not; corporate drones are the ones who love talking about efficiency, making everything cold and unfeeling. Sometimes it feels stifling, and you realize every way to relax is ridiculously expensive. It’s fucking annoying..."

"Hahaha, you’re right, damn those corporate drones."

The shopkeeper laughed heartily, his wrinkles bunching together, making him look dreadful.

John waved his fingers around his face.

"Why not fix it? There are many cosmetic procedures available. You’re in this line of work, haven’t thought about making yourself more appealing to attract customers?"

"I do it on purpose. That’s a long story; I’ll tell you when you have time to visit next time."

The shopkeeper ticked off items on the terminal.

After taking drugs, his emotions fluctuated greatly, and he noticeably vented while speaking.

John had seen people like this—Ryan, that drunkard, was the same way, criticizing the company, complaining about the system, and cursing the entire city after getting drunk.

The shopkeeper finished his work.

He took out a very sophisticated metal case, wherein tattoo materials were packed in a cooling tank with plastic film; when taken out, the whole room seemed to smoke, resembling the garnish used in upscale restaurants to justify price hikes.

"Do you know the three cores of the Black Gold Gang?"

The shopkeeper pulled over a chair, put on gloves, beginning to adjust the precision of the prosthetic limb without asking John what designs he needed.

He spoke to himself.

"Gold, firearms, and graffiti."

The Black Gold Gang’s spray paint patterns could be seen all over the streets.

John had heard about it when he first arrived in the West District—those works implicitly contained an old-fashioned hierarchy, with certain patterns and symbols exclusive to specific groups, including commemorative scripts and designs that required approval; otherwise, they’d be considered a provocation.

As the shopkeeper introduced, he shook his head.

"Rules have vanished; streets change quickly, countless youths die in gunfights every day, and nobody can settle down. People care less and less about tradition and culture."

"You’re old-school."

John loosened his coat, extending his left arm.

But the shopkeeper shook his head.

"The logo I’m giving you needs to be on your neck or face, visible, displayed to those on the street. Those in the know will respect you, see you in a higher light. In times when information wasn’t that developed, it was a visible reputation."

"What kind of design?"

"Your name, John; it’s a symbol of identity."

"Can I change its form?"

"No problem."

The shopkeeper was in a good mood.

He liked those who were smart and willing to quietly listen to him, especially young guys who had made a name for themselves on the street.

John pulled down his clothes, revealing his neck.

"Write Kenichi Sora."

"Are you sure? It seems a waste. How about another moniker, or a shorthand symbol, a single letter would do."