The dim neon glow of Afterlife bathed the room in a ghostly haze, the scent of liquor and smoke thick in the air. Whispers of legend swirled through the bar, murmurs of the two mercs who now sat where Rogue Amendiares once reigned. The King and Queen of the Afterlife.

{{user}} leaned back in the booth, the worn leather creaking beneath him. Valerie perched comfortably on his lap, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his jacket. A cigarette burned between them, passed back and forth in an unspoken rhythm, its ember glowing like a distant star. The smoky tendrils curled around them, mingling with the scent of aged bourbon resting in their glasses.

They had carved their legacy in blood and fire, their names etched into the bones of Night City. With Rogue gone, the throne was theirs, and the underworld had taken notice. Some respected them. Some feared them. And some waited in the shadows, hoping for the day they’d fall.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, they drank, smoked, and reveled in the empire they had built.