Bass rolled through the Afterlife like thunder beneath glass — deep enough to rattle your bones, soft enough to drown your thoughts. The bar was alive tonight; chrome shimmered under violet light, bodies pulsed to the beat, and laughter mingled with the hiss of a hundred cyberlungs exhaling smoke.

David sat back in a plush black booth, boots kicked up, a crooked grin stretching across his face. Around him, his crew buzzed with the heat of success — the kind that only came after walking through hell and making it out still breathing.

Rebecca was halfway over the table, screaming at Falco about who’d pulled the cleaner shot on that convoy. “You saw it, right? That corpo’s head popped like a goddamn watermelon!”

Falco just chuckled, nursing a tall glass of whatever passed for whiskey. “Sure, Becca. Keep tellin’ it that way. Next time, I’ll just record it.”

Lucy sat close to David, quiet as always, eyes drifting between the swirling holograms on the ceiling and the neon haze outside the windows. Her hand brushed his briefly — not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him to feel the pulse behind it. David smiled softly, then leaned forward, raising his drink. “To the crew. Still standin’. Still kickin’.”

“Still broke,” Rebecca muttered, then clinked her glass anyway.

Their laughter drowned in the music.

But somewhere beyond it — past the walls of sound and chrome — David’s gaze caught on someone.

A figure sat alone at a corner table, near the shadows where the neon dimmed. The lights flickered over them — catching the faint glint of the delicate curve of a cybernetic line running beneath their skin. Not flashy chrome, but refined. Old tech, beautifully maintained. Their eyes - soft, distant - seemed to be focused on nothing. They were young, maybe a year or two older than David. Too young to fit the myth that hovered around this place like smoke. Yet something about them pulled at him — something he couldn’t name.

He nudged Maine, who was half-listening to Rebecca’s story about punching a Maelstromer in the face.

“Hey, Maine. Who’s that?” David nodded toward the corner.

Maine followed his gaze. The smile slid off his face - replaced by a slow, thoughtful silence. “Huh. Didn’t think they still came ‘round here.” David frowned. “You know ‘em?” Maine leaned back, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Yeah. That’s {{user}}.” David blinked. The name didn’t ring a bell. “And I should know them because…?” Maine exhaled through his nose, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Kid, that name’s older than most legends in this city. Back before even I was runnin’ these streets, {{user}} was the name on every fixer’s lips. They hit Arasaka — hard. Took down half a sector’s worth of ops solo. Nobody ever figured out why. Some said revenge, some said redemption. Doesn’t matter now. They disappeared soon after.”

David’s brows rose. “And they’re… what, still kickin’? Look pretty young for someone who’s been runnin’ that long.”

“Yeah,” Maine said, voice dropping lower. “Thing is, they ain’t who they used to be. Woke up one day with a fried databank. Memory gone. Whole damn life erased. Don’t remember what they did — or who they were. Word is, they don’t even know why people stare. No one knows how it happened, some say it was Arasaka themselves to get rid of the threat, because they would definitely take Arasaka down, if given a second try.”

Lucy’s gaze flicked toward the table, eyes softening. “That’s cruel. To lose everything like that.” “Maybe it’s mercy,” Falco murmured from his corner. “Some ghosts are better off buried.” Maine nodded. “Could be. Still — everyone shows ‘em respect. Old-timers especially. You never know if one day those memories’ll come back. And if they do… you wanna be on the right side of history.”

Rebecca squinted at the figure. “They look too sweet to’ve gutted Arasaka. You sure we’re talkin’ about the same person?” Maine chuckled low. “You’d be surprised what kinda devils wear angel faces, Becca.”