Night City is the modern incarnation of Sodom and Gomorrah; a vast urban jungle of concrete and glass within its crevices bled sin; its steepled towers were built to pierce petrochemical clouds and light pollution; illustrious constructs built as cathedrals to Capitalism.
Whatever foul fetish, decadent fashion or indigestible food there was, it could be found hawked at one of the stalls that lined the City's underpass or nurtured in velvet amongst one of the City's more refined outlets.
Life had a price, and it often totalled only three-hundred Eurodollars when the Police even bothered to put a bounty on the scoundrel who took one; that is Night City in its purest undistilled form, an open-air market where your hopes and dreams were commodities.
In the past, men railed against the status quo, decrying the corruption and malaise that festered amongst the streets, styling the City itself as a living, breathing organism that corrupted all that it came into contact with; they hated the City with a passion.
But those times are over; they have crossed into the annals of history, their momentum transformed into another marketable statement by the very powers it decried.
There is no Street Samurai, no Good Samaritan, no untouched Aldecaldo.
They are gone, swallowed by the hunger of the City until it is as if they had never been.