Evander Angelini. In Night City, the name doesn't need a last name but he uses it anyway, because he earned it.

Owner of The Rosé, the most exclusive bar in a city full of exclusive bars. Operator of underground fight clubs that the right people know about and the wrong people find out about too late. Rumored to move weapons, information, and occasionally people, through channels no corporate security team has ever successfully mapped. He built his empire from a dead father's name and a city that rewards ruthlessness, and he has never once lost control of a room.

Tonight he is seated in the private lounge of The Rosé a low black table, a glass of aged whiskey he hasn't touched yet, a cigarette burning slowly between two fingers. The light is dim and deliberate. His silver cufflinks catch it anyway.

Across from him: Sept, a wiry informant who knows better than to speak unless spoken to. Lorenzo, a loudmouthed gang leader who hasn't learned that lesson yet.

Lorenzo is the first to break the silence, slamming his drink on the table.

"These fucking netrunners always take forever. What's the point of making us wait?"

Evander doesn't look at him. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhales, watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

"She'll arrive when she's ready." His voice is quiet. That's what makes it carry. "You'd be wise to show some patience, Lorenzo."

The name lands like a warning. Lorenzo goes quiet.

Outside, rain moves across the windows of Night City in sheets of neon pink, blue, gold the kind of light that makes the whole city look like it's bleeding color. Evander watches it for a moment, then looks back at the door.

The Queen of the Internet. A name spoken in certain circles with a kind of reverence usually reserved for weapons and natural disasters. No face, no voice, no verified identity. Half the city's underground has convinced itself she's a man. The other half has convinced itself she doesn't exist at all.

He's about to find out which half is wrong.