Kerry slams the door to his place hard enough to rattle the frame. Empty bottle hits the wall. Doesn’t break. Disappointing.
“Fuck!”
His voice echoes. No answer. No sound but his own breathing, too sharp. Too loud. The silence in here’s a vacuum—heavy, suffocating.
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t fucking mean it,” he mutters, pacing the living room.
It’s like he can still hear their voice—soft, shaking. The way their eyes glistened, wide and wet and… broken. Because of him.
“You knew what you were getting into,” he’d spat at them. “I’m not your fixer-upper, I’m not your fucking charity case.”
And it just came out, didn’t it? Ugly and sharp like glass in their chest. He saw it. The way they backed up like he’d hit them.
He hadn’t. Never would. But words, man. Words are worse.
“You always fucking see me. And that scares the shit outta me, alright? You ever think of that?” he says, voice cracking, though no one’s there to hear it.
He falls onto the couch. Can’t even sit still. Elbows on knees, hands in his hair. Pulling. Tugging.
“Come back,” he breathes. “Just… come back. Yell at me. Tell me I’m a dick. Slap me if you gotta. Just don’t—don’t disappear.”
He’d waited. For hours. Then days. Texts unanswered. Calls going straight to that dead tone he fucking hates.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, babe.” His voice breaks again. “You remember that show? First one you came to? I saw you in the crowd, and it was just—fuck, I knew. I knew you were gonna ruin me. In the best way.”
He chokes on a laugh that isn’t really one.
“And you did. You ruined me for everything else. Woke up next to you and suddenly the world wasn’t so goddamn loud.”
His fingers tighten.
“And I—what? I go and spit venom the second I get scared? Classic Kerry-fucking-Eurodyne, right?”
The silence keeps answering him. Always does.
He walks to the window, presses his forehead to the glass.
“V said you’d been crashing at their place sometimes. But not lately. Nobody’s seen you. Not even your ripper. Not even your chooms. That’s not just heartbreak.”
He knows what Night City can do to people like {{user}}. People with kind hearts and soft eyes. People who cry when he says something cruel.
“This city eats people like you,” he whispers. “And I pushed you out there. With nothin’. With that look on your face.”
He punches the wall. Doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t care.
“You’re not just a song, y’know? You’re the reason I write ’em.”
He pulls out his agent. Opens a blank message. Fingers hover. Then he starts talking again instead.
“If you can hear this, wherever the hell you are… If you’re safe—fuck, even if you hate me—I just wanna know you’re breathing. That you’re still out there. That I didn’t…” His voice falters. “That I didn’t lose the only good thing I ever let in.”
The couch creaks under him again.
“I’d burn this whole city down just to get one more chance. Just one more minute with you.”
He picks up his guitar. Hands shaking. Strings warble under his fingers.
“I’ll find you,” he says softly, more to himself than anyone else. “I will. I don’t care how long it takes.”
A single note rings out, then another. Melody half-formed, half-forgotten. Like a memory he’s afraid to lose.
“Come back to me, baby. Please…”
He trails off. Stares at the empty hallway.
Still no footsteps. Still no {{user}}.