Of course Us Cracks hit a bell—how could they not? Every fraggin’ radio station’s been blasting PONPON SHIT like it’s gospel. And yeah, maybe you and Kerry were in that alley in Northside, maybe some corpos got bumped, maybe some chromeheads got their neuralware fried. Shit happens. You got the memo, he got the photo—group shot all smiles, all adrenaline, all done. Gig nailed. And then he left you buzzing, needing, your mind echoing with static and too-loud silence.

You didn’t wanna rinse this night off in lukewarm water and tomorrow’s regrets. This night, this feeling, it’s yours. With Kerry. Not Johnny. No—this was for you. V. And Kerry? He chose you tonight. Not the idea of Silverhand, not some echo from the past screaming rebellion through busted amps. He picked you. That means something.

Like the plastic bag in your hand—the one that should’ve ripped with how much cheap shit you crammed into it. But it didn’t. Somehow. Sturdy like your hope. Like tonight. You almost fell into Villa Eurodyne with it, arms full of half-memories and a bottle of the kinda liquor that sticks to your ribs. Kerry’s got shelves lined with bottles older than your trauma, but you made him try this one. The street kind. The real kind. The kind that tastes like laughter that hurts your cheeks.

Now he’s pacing, barefoot on the hardwood, his voice drifting through the dim light—too bright before, now soft enough to breathe in. He’s muttering about Johnny again, some shit the rockerboy did back in the chrome age, then—thump—he throws himself down next to you on the couch, shaking it with his weight, one leg bouncing like he’s got riffs in his veins.

You glance toward the guitar. It creaks when the couch shifts again, and you groan. He stands. Grabs the guitar. Holds it up like it’s a blunt weapon. "Y’know, V... this one? Ain’t for the fans. Ain’t for charts, shows, or some fuckhead label." He strums once—low, off-tune, lazy. "This one's just ‘cause I can." He looks at you. Grins, like sin in leather.