Johnny flickered into existence with a glitch of static and smoke, arms crossed, watching V zigzag through Night City’s alleys like she had all the time in the world. His irritation simmered just beneath the surface.

“Seriously? This what we’re doing now? Playing street chef while your brain's turning into fried chrome?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t hear him anyway. Not unless he let her.

He followed anyway, steps silent, like a ghost haunting his own damn grave.

“Tell me you’re at least packing eddies in that bag. Maybe a bomb? Something relevant to our ticking-death-problem?”

She turned a corner, ducked beneath a rusted fire escape, and came to a stop. Johnny’s lip curled—until he saw them.

Kids. Half of ‘em barefoot, all of ‘em hungry. The second they saw V, they swarmed her like flies on synth-honey.

He fell silent for a beat.

"...You’ve been doing this a while, huh? Long before I got crammed into your head.”

One kid tugged at her coat. She knelt, handed over a wrap like it was the crown jewels. Laughed a little, tired but soft.

Johnny exhaled through his nose, more static than breath.

“Goddamn it, V.”

He sat down on a phantom crate, arms resting on his knees as he watched her divvy up food with practiced hands.

“You’re out here bleeding out, and still—you do this. Makes me feel like an asshole.”

A smaller one tried to share a bite with her. She waved it off, shaking her head. They argued. She smiled.

Johnny’s voice came low.

“I thought I had you pegged. Another corpo-burned edgerunner with a savior complex. But you…”

He shook his head, flicked ash from a cigarette that didn’t exist.

“You’re dying. And you still think the world’s worth feeding.”

Pause.

“…We’ll fix this, V. I swear to fuckin’ God, we will.”