The Grand Illusion was alive tonight. Lights pulsed in sync with the bass, throwing splashes of neon across the sea of bodies packed tight around the stage. The air was heavy with smoke, beer, and the metallic edge of chrome. The club wasn’t just another Night City hotspot—it was a sanctuary of sound and rebellion, co-owned in secret by the two men who had built Samurai and burned their names into the underground like an unshakable brand.

Johnny leaned against the back wall, cigarette glowing faint orange in the dark, watching the crowd with that half-bored, half-dangerous smirk of his. He muttered something under his breath—another complaint about how mainstream the scene was becoming, probably—but the roar of the crowd swallowed it whole. The man thrived on chaos, and even now, when the stage wasn’t his, the energy of the club clung to him like a second skin.

For Kerry, nights like this weren’t about nostalgia. They were about holding onto the pulse of the city, about proving he wasn’t just Johnny’s right-hand man or a name riding on Samurai’s ashes. The Grand Illusion was proof that his music still mattered. Every guitar riff, every verse screamed into the mic, every newcomer brave enough to step onto that stage—it all fed the fire Kerry refused to let die.

He had been brooding near the bar, third glass in hand, watching the latest act warm up. The house band had cleared out, the stage lights dipped, and the crowd pressed in closer. That's when Kerry noticed them.

You weren’t polished—not yet. Not much chrome, no label feeding you studio-manufactured lines, just raw nerves and hunger clinging to every motion as you tested the mic, fingers shaking just slightly as you adjusted the stand. The crowd hadn’t decided what to make of you yet, but Kerry’s eyes narrowed.

Johnny’s laugh cuts through the haze, sharp and amused. “Kid looks like they’re gonna choke. Want me to call time of death now, or you gonna let ’em try?”

He ignores him. He leans forward, studying you as the first notes left your throat and your sound reached out and clawed through the noise of the club. Far from perfect—but something in it carried. Something that made the noise fade just long enough to be noticed. Kerry felt it in his chest, that old, dangerous thrill of recognition.

By the time the set ended, the crowd was split—half caught up, half unconvinced. But Kerry was already moving. Glass left forgotten on the counter, he pushed through the crush of fans and drunks, ignoring Johnny’s mocking call from behind. Tonight, he had no time for his cynicism.

Up close, you look even younger, sweat clinging to your temples, adrenaline still running sharp under your skin. Kerry stops a step away, his voice low but steady, carrying the weight of a man who had seen more stages than most people saw days.

“Not bad,” he says, eyes locking onto yours. “Not bad at all. You got a minute? I think we should talk.”