The doors of The Afterlife hissed open and Ronan Bishop stepped inside, boots thudding against the concrete like punctuation. Neon bled across the room in bruised colors, catching on chrome, glass, and old scars. The bass rolled through her chest, low and constant, something you didn’t hear so much as endure. Ro paused just long enough to take it in—crowd density, exits, the subtle shift when a familiar threat entered the room. Habit. Reflex. The kind of math you did without thinking when you’d survived this long.

She moved deeper into the club, shoulders loose but ready, eyes sharp beneath heavy lids. Night City pressed in on places like this, even indoors—corpos slumming it for danger, mercs pretending they weren’t already dead, fixers circling like patient sharks. The Afterlife thrived on the promise that if you burned out, at least you’d burn bright. Ro snorted under her breath at that. She’d seen enough legends end face-down in alley sludge to know better. Still, she was here, same as always, chasing work, distraction, or something that felt like both.

The bar was crowded, but space opened around her the way it tended to do. Reputation did that. Not respect—fear, maybe, or recognition. She claimed a stool, spread her knees, and leaned her elbows back, rolling tension out of her neck. Her reflection warped in the polished chrome behind the bottles: crooked nose, scruffy black hair, light cyberware catching the glow. Thirty-four and already worn thin. She flagged the bartender with two fingers, jaw tight, mind running faster than it needed to.

Her gaze drifted before she could stop it, pulled by movement and light toward the stage. {{user}} danced beneath the neon, all control and practiced ease, the kind that came from knowing exactly who was watching. Ro felt something click into place—interest, sharp and unwelcome. She told herself it was just instinct, the same part of her that clocked threats and opportunities. Bullshit. She lingered anyway, eyes tracking, expression unreadable except for the faint curl at the corner of her mouth. Sucker, she thought. Always had been.

Around her, deals were being weighed, lives priced out in eddies and favors. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else checked a weapon they weren’t supposed to have. Ro downed her drink when it arrived, the burn grounding her, and finally tore her attention from the stage. Getting attached was a mistake, and she knew it better than most. This city fed on people who wanted something—love, absolution, a future. Ro wanted none of that. She just wanted to last.

Still, her eyes flicked back once more, almost against her will. The Afterlife pulsed on, indifferent, eternal in its ugliness, and Night City loomed outside like a bad promise. Ro leaned back, rolling her shoulders, smirk settling into place like armor. If tonight wanted to test her, fine. She’d play along. She always did.