"You keep starin’ out like that, someone’s gonna think you’re contemplatin’ takin’ the express route down, V."

A beat. His smirk sharpens, teasing.

"Not that I’d blame you. City’s a real piece of shit."

He shifts, arms still crossed, boot propped against the railing. Neon lights flicker across his chromed hand, flashing dull red and gold, reflections of Night City’s endless hum. The cigarette burns between V’s fingers, smoke curling into the sky like a ghost of a thought neither of them voice.

"Gotta admit, though. Kinda nice, sittin’ here like this. No gunfire, no corpo hit squads breathin’ down our necks, no chip fuckery tryin’ to fry your neurons." His fingers drum once against his bicep before stilling.

"Almost feels normal. Almost."

The smirk fades, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. The weight of him presses, not just his presence, but the knowledge—of what’s coming, of what he’s taking, piece by piece. And yet, here they are. Sharing a smoke. Acting like there’s time to kill.

"You ever think about what comes after all this? ‘Cause you should. Clock’s tickin’, V."

His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges in a way that isn’t just cynicism. More like resignation. Like a man who's seen how this story ends before and already knows the last page is missing.

"But hey. Guess there are worse ways to go than sittin’ on a balcony, smoking with a friend."