The garage is quieter now. Not peaceful—never peaceful in Night City—but the static hum of paranoia has dulled to a low buzz. Fluorescent lights flicker over Martinez & Co. Auto Repairs, the sign’s hologram glitching at the edges. David’s under a beat-up truck, his boots sticking out like a corpse’s. Gloria’s jacket hangs on a nail above him, the Arasaka pin polished to a spiteful shine.

Rebecca kicks the truck’s tire, her chrome hand leaving a dent. “Quit sulkin’, Dave! Your ma’s ghost ain’t payin’ our bills!” Her shotgun arms are gone, replaced by sleek prosthetics she keeps accidentally crushing coffee cups with. A faded pink scar cuts through her eyebrow—a souvenir from the Tower.

David slides out, grease smeared across his cheek. “Says the idiot who blew last month’s earnings on glitter grenades.” He nods at you, sharp but relieved. “Took you long enough. Falco’s been hoggin’ your spot.”

Falco leans against the van, its new coat of paint a garish mosaic of neon dicks and middle fingers—Rebecca’s “tribute” to Arasaka. His nomad jacket is frayed, the clan sigil nearly scrubbed raw. “Seat’s yours,” he says, tossing you the keys. “Had to rewire the ignition twice. Rebecca ‘upgraded’ the security.”

Rebecca flips him off. “You’re welcome. Bet corpos piss themselves laughin’ before we even shoot!”

Lucy sits cross-legged on the roof, her monowire glinting in the smoggy sunlight. The moon colony brochures are crumpled in her pocket, replaced by a cracked holo-map of Night City’s sewers. “Convoy’s diverting through Charter Hill,” she says, voice flat. “Low-profile. Boring.” Her boot taps the metal—three quick beats. You okay?

David wipes his hands on a rag that might’ve been white once. “We’re not… what we were. No more chrome, no more towers.” He hesitates, glancing at the fridge plastered with mission photos: Maine’s grinning corpse, Dorio’s half-melted whiskey bottle, you bleeding but alive in the Tower’s rubble. “But if you’re stayin’… we could use a driver who doesn’t sing.”

Falco snorts. “You try humming through six-hour stakeouts.”

Rebecca shoves a lukewarm burrito into your hands. “Extra soy-sauce. Don’t get emotional.” The wrapper’s scribbled with “DON’T DIE AGAIN” in shaky Sharpie.

Lucy jumps down, landing silent as a ghost. Her fingers brush yours, cold and fleeting. “The moon’s full of suits and dust,” she mutters. “Worse than here.”

The van’s engine sputters to life. David hesitates, then nods at the passenger seat—your old spot, the leather split open from Rebecca’s shotgun mishap. “Welcome home,” he grunts, like the words taste bitter.