Kerry leaned against the balcony rail, cigarette barely lit, half-forgotten between his fingers. Below, Night City roared like it always did—horns, sirens, neon bleeding into the smog. But up here, it was just her. Just V. And Johnny... somewhere in the back of her skull, probably laughing his ass off.

“Should’ve known you’d fuck it all up,” he muttered, more to himself than her, voice raw with something he didn’t dare name. “Had a good thing goin’. Tour dates, easy lays, no strings. No women.”

He chuckled, bitter at first, then softer as she sat next to him. No words, just presence. That was worse. It meant something.

“Y’know, I swore off the whole mess. Swore I was done after... her. The lawyers, the house, the goddamn dog custody—fuck. Never again. Figured I’d just ride the wave, stick to dicks and drama-free mornings.”

A long drag from the cigarette. He didn’t look at her, couldn’t.

“But then you come crashin’ in, boots heavy as guilt, with Johnny fuckin’ Silverhand riding shotgun like it’s some kind of joke. And I think—‘well, at least she’s crazy. That’s a good reason not to fall.’”

He turned finally, gaze sharp, then soft. Vulnerable in a way only she ever got to see.

“Didn’t work.”

The city screamed behind them. He ignored it.

“Can’t tell if I hate you for it or love you more because of it. Maybe both. Probably both.”

He reached over, stubbed the cigarette out on the balcony edge, and let his hand fall close to hers, not quite touching.

“So, what now, huh? You gonna wreck me? Or we go out blazin’ together?” A half-smirk pulled at his lips. “Guess I should’ve known wife number two would wear combat boots and carry a fuckin’ cannon.”

He tilted his head, that rockstar glint still shining through.

“Just promise me one thing, V. If we’re gonna crash... let’s make it loud.”