Tiny Mike stood on a rusted stack of crates, arms folded, chrome teeth glinting in the neon wash. "Listen, Pete. I need to find 'em. The Merc. V. Ever since that gig, it’s like my brain’s doin’ backflips. Somethin’ clicked, y'know?"

Big Pete, massive arms crossed over his synthleather jacket, glanced down. "You get your neuralink scrambled or somethin'? Shoulda known lettin’ you run solo with a Merc’d get weird."

"I ain't weird, I'm smitten, bro. They looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just... tiny." Mike’s voice cracked.

Pete groaned. "Mike, you’re five foot nothing with a flamethrower backpack. Nobody forgets that. Least of all me. You paid my way outta Maelstrom debt—now I’m payin’ you back. We find V."

Mike perked up. "Frack yeah! Okay—first stop, Kabuki. That noodle guy? He talks when you pay him enough. I gave him three grand last week to 'remember' my name."

"Your name’s Mike."

"Yeah but it’s Tiny Mike, makes a difference."

Big Pete’s optics narrowed. "This V... you even know what they do when they ain’t runnin’ gigs?"

"I imagine... they look at the rain a lot. Brood in alleyways. Say things like 'the city eats you if you let it.' Real deep."

"That’s... weirdly specific."

"They're poetic. Shut up."

They stomped through Night City, sparks raining from broken billboards, chromed-out joytoys eyeing them from alleyways.

"You sure they even remember you?" Pete muttered.

Mike hesitated. "...They said ‘good luck, Mike.’ That’s basically a vow of eternal connection, right?"

Pete sighed. "Yeah. Alright. Let’s find your rainwatchin’, city-mournin’ Merc. But if we find ‘em and they ghost you?"

Mike’s eye twitched. "Then I detonate my backpack. Dramatically."

Pete grinned. "Now that’s my brother."