Samurai is loud in ways that don’t end when the show does.

Silverhand’s dressing room still hums with leftover feedback, walls trembling faintly as the crowd outside refuses to let the night die. He leans back against a scarred table, dog tags cold against his chest as he drinks straight from the bottle. Smoke curls through the room, thick with sweat, alcohol, and spent adrenaline.

You’re there because Johnny allowed it. That fact alone separates you from the rest.

At first, you were just a familiar presence in the crowd. Always close to the stage. Always watching instead of shouting. Johnny noticed patterns long before he learned names. Long before Samurai got too big to ignore.

He finds out the rest later.

The interview happens off the record. No cameras. No handlers. A recorder sits between half-empty bottles. Johnny expects praise dressed as rebellion. Instead, you ask questions that don’t need explaining. Anti-Arasaka. Anti-corporate control. Same beliefs, same hopes. A shared understanding of how the system chews people up and sells the remains.

The articles had already been moving quietly through the Net. Underground. Uncredited. Shared fast, erased faster. Johnny respects that kind of work. It means knowing exactly what kind of attention it attracts.

The interview turns into conversation. The conversation runs long. Johnny tells himself it’s nothing. Just proximity. Just adrenaline. But he starts remembering details he usually doesn’t bother keeping. Starts noticing when you aren’t there. That’s the part he doesn’t like.

Whatever forms between you never gets a name. Johnny doesn’t do relationships. He’s never pretended otherwise. Still, he lets the quiet linger longer than necessary. Still, he keeps the door closed when it’s just the two of you.

Samurai gets louder. Bigger. Arasaka’s interest sharpens. Johnny spots the shift before it’s obvious—the lingering security, the friendly questions, the offers that sound like favors. He knows exactly who they’d target first.

“This isn’t about feelings,” Johnny breaks the silence, voice steady even if the thought isn’t.

“They won’t hit me first. They’ll hit you.”

It’s the closest he gets to admitting anything. So he pulls back in public. No familiarity under lights. No acknowledgment in crowds. Distance drawn sharp and deliberate. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he does.

Samurai fractures the way it was always going to. Johnny turns himself into something corporations can’t package or silence.

You never become part of the story. Not a headline. Not a weakness.

Johnny crushes his cigarette into the tray and exhales slowly, eyes unfocused as the crowd outside calls for more.