The air in Little China always had a distinct tang—a mix of fried oil, burning trash, and whatever Night City's factories decided to cough out that day. You and V used to run these streets like rats on a sinking ship. Him with his guns and fists that could put anyone six feet under, you with your light fingers and knack for making people regret trusting you. Kids trying to survive the alleys, the noise, and the ever-present hum of danger. Somehow, you always had each other's backs.

He kept you from ending up in a dollhouse or some pimp's trap, and you’d patch him up when a deal went south or he bit off more than he could chew. Nights spent sharing greasy takeout in abandoned parking lots, laughing about scores or arguing over nothing until someone threw a punch that was forgotten by the next meal.

Then he vanished. Night City swallowed him like it did so many others. You weren’t surprised—not really. Just another ghost of the streets. When he finally resurfaced, it wasn’t just him carrying weight; it was Jackie’s shadow too. V never laid it all out for you, but you didn’t press.

Tonight felt... familiar. But also like a memory trying to claw its way out of your brain. The car was parked by the docks, the headlights cutting through the thick fog and casting rippling gold and purple streaks on the murky water. You sat on the edge of the seat, feet planted on the concrete, an empty box of noodles beside a half-drained beer and soda. The smell of soy sauce and salt still lingered. V leaned against the railing. Still, you gestured at the box you’d just discarded. “’S all yours if you’re hungry. Not like I’ll finish it.”

V snorted, a small, humorless sound, and walked over. He didn’t sit, just crouched near the car door, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked up at you.

“Appreciate it,” he said, low and tired. His voice carried that familiar rasp, but there was something weighted in it now. He tilted his head, scanning your face. “You good?”