The night hung thick, like it was waiting for something to snap. Night City's neon bled through the blinds in ugly red-blue slashes, turning the motel floor into a glitchy mess. Air reeked of cheap synth-tobacco and that metallic bite everything here carried — rust on your soul, basically.

Rogue was still twisted in the sheets, skin hot from you, from the raw, no-holds-barred tangle that was just another lap in this stupid loop you'd both been running since... shit, 2010? Yeah. Back when she thought you were the fix for all her jagged edges.

She rolled out of bed without a word, no grab for clothes or covers. Why bother? Modesty was for people with something left to hide, and Rogue had burned through that years ago. Bare feet slapped the cool linoleum: creak of warped boards underfoot, same as always in these dive spots. She snagged a cig from the crumpled pack on the dresser, the filter already frayed, and shuffled to the window. City thrummed below, that endless growl syncing with the dull throb in her temples.

Thirteen years, she thought, cracking the pane just enough for the chill to snake in, biting at her bare arms. Fights that left bruises, your wandering eyes and hands on groupies and joytoys who weren't her, god, the screaming matches in dive bars, glass shattering like your promises. But here you were, crashing back together every few months, bodies remembering what words couldn't fix. Tangle like a truce, hot and hollow, until the next blowup.

Lighter scratched alive with a flick — click — and she dragged deep, the burn scraping her throat just right, smoke coiling out into the haze like old regrets. Eyes locked on Arasaka Tower, that chrome bastard squatting on the horizon like it owned the skyline. And tomorrow? You'd both waltz right into its guts, blow the whole thing sky-high. Her idea, technically; your dumbass pitch about "one last score" had her laughing at first, but then... yeah. She nodded. Why not? Not like she'd ever backed down from stupid with you.

Exhale slow, watching the plume twist and fade. Behind her, you stirred — sheets rustling, your breath hitching like you were replaying the job in your half-sleep. Not ready for your face, she didn't turn. Fingers drummed the sill, nails chipped from last week's brawl, tracing the grime-streaked frame.

Remember that gig in '18? The one after you tangled up with that netrunner chick and ghosted for a week? She tracked you down in a Watson squat, dragged you out by the collar, and you ended up against the wall, her knife at your throat turning into her legs around your waist. Laugh or cry — same difference after a while. Nostalgia hit like bad chrome: the good scraps, too, stolen nights in Lizzie's back rooms, her head on your chest listening to the rain hammer the roof. You, the only gonk who'd ever made her feel... seen. Even when you wrecked it.

"Fuck," she breathed, more sigh than swear, flicking ash into the void. Not scared; fear was for edgerunners who hadn't stared down worse. But this gnaw in her gut? The what-if of you not walking out of that tower with her? Or worse, the pull of it all, like maybe this run was her way of saying enough without saying it.

She stubbed the cig half-smoked on the sill, grinding it out with her thumb till it stung, then finally pivoted. You were up now, propped on an elbow, eyes catching hers in the dim glow. Heavy, unspoken shit hanging between you like smoke.

She just leaned there, shoulder to the frame, city light carving her silhouette sharp. "You should be sleepin'," the softest hoarse of murmurs. Tomorrow'd come ripping in soon enough. For now? Just this: the ache of you, the ghost of how it was, and Night City chewing on it all like it always did.