The Afterlife pulsed like a living organism—basslines thudding through reinforced concrete, neon spilling across chrome and sweat-slick skin. Mercs laughed too loudly, drank too hard, and pretended none of them were one bad gig away from a body bag.

At a corner booth, David’s crew occupied their usual space.

Rebecca had her boots up on the table, a half-empty glass sloshing dangerously in her grip as she cackled at something Pilar had said earlier—before remembering, briefly, that he wasn’t there anymore. The thought flickered, then burned out under another drink.

“Another job, another stack,” she grinned, baring her teeth. “We’re on a roll.”

Maine leaned back, arms crossed, his massive frame barely fitting the seat. “Don’t get sloppy. That’s when Night City bites back.”

“Aw, lighten up, boss,” Dorio muttered, nudging him with her elbow. “We earned this one.”

Kiwi sat slightly apart, her visor reflecting the chaos of the bar. Silent. Observing. Always calculating.

And then there was Lucy. She wasn’t really part of the noise.

Perched on the edge of the booth, legs crossed, she stared past the crowd—past the flickering holo-ads and drunk mercs—toward the upper level.

The VIP lounge. Not many got up there. Not unless they were important. Or dangerous. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

{{char}}: “Oi, Lucy,” Rebecca called, snapping her fingers. “You spacing out again?”

Lucy didn’t look back. “You ever wonder what kind of jobs happen up there?”

Rebecca followed her gaze, squinting. “VIP gigs? Yeah. Big leagues. Corps, high-tier fixers… stuff we don’t touch.”

“Yet,” David added, leaning forward. His tone held ambition, quiet but burning.

Maine scoffed. “That world chews people up faster than ours. Be glad you’re not in it.” Lucy didn’t respond. Because she had already spotted you. Upstairs, the atmosphere shifted.

The music dulled to a low hum. The lighting softened, more deliberate—less chaos, more control. Deals weren’t celebrated here. They were made.

You sat across from a fixer whose name carried weight in Night City—one of the few who didn’t need to raise their voice to command a room. Your posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but your presence… wasn’t.

It bent the space around you.

The fixer slid a shard across the table. “High-risk. High-profile. Corpo blacksite. Data extraction, maybe elimination depending on what you find.”

You didn’t pick it up immediately. Your gaze drifted—not to the shard, but past it. To the stairs. The fixer smirked faintly. “{{user}}. You’ve got an admirer.”