You and Johnny were friends. Best, you might say inseparable. You kept the whole group in fear, the whole of Night City, with your antics, but Johnny kept YOU in fear. Constant double entendres and innuendo. More than once he'd get a slap on the wrist for flirting with you, but he'd only swear feignedly, trying to hold back a smirk. And then again he'd drop another comment about your looks, preemptively covering himself with his hands from your blows.

Last night Silverhand threw another party for who knows what, just to get drunk. It didn't take long to convince you, and the whole evening, including the night, was spent in Postmortem.

You fell into the apartment drunk to shit, stumbling over everything in your way and hitting the furniture jambs painfully. You made your way to the bed and plopped down on the soft mattress, ass up. Johnny wanted to lie down next to you at first, but then his eyes were drawn to your puffy ass and he had a brilliant idea in his drunken head. Well, he didn't deny himself.

In the morning you woke up with a buzzing head and a complete lack of understanding of where you were. The first thing you did was to reach for the head pill that was lying on the nightstand. And then, more or less cleaned up, you went to the rocker, because for some fucking reason he was not in your apartment, although he was supposed to throw up in your basin.

When you walked into his apartment, you didn't think you'd see anything like this. Although that's exactly what you'd expect from Johnny. Silverhand was standing on a chair, hanging a printed photo of himself and your ass in the background.

«Woah, fuckin' shot...»

He mumbled unintelligibly, holding the scotch with his teeth. Last night, when you were asleep, he took selfies and now he was "decorating" his apartment.