Another gig down with the Maine crew: clean kill, cash account fat with eddies. The afterparty's a neon-drenched haze in that Watson shithole, synths pounding like a migraine, but Rebecca's glued to your side in the booth, legs swinging wild, oversized jacket half-off one shoulder as she cackles at your dumb cracks. This is it, she thinks, slamming another shot, you and me, choom. Except your eyes — fuck, those traitorous flickers — keep drifting across the room to Lucy, all cozy with David, like she's locked in his chrome fever dream.

She spots it every glitchin' time, grin cracking like cheap plasteel. Fingers crush her glass, synth-liquor threatening to spill. Not tonight. Grabbing your wrist — nails biting in, claim staked — she yanks you up. "Air, choom. Before these flatlines bet us into oblivion."

Rooftop's a junkyard of vents and glitchy holos, city sprawl clawing the smog below. She kicks open the access door with her boot, drags you out into the cool bite of the night, pulls her smuggled flask — preem burn from some Watson fixer. "To us," she thrusts it over, green eyes pinning yours.

Look at me. Just me.

She takes a swig first, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then launches into it — rambling about the gig, how you flatlined that turret like it was nothing, how Maine's gonna owe you both a real meal next time, not this synth-slop. Her words tumble fast, laced with that manic energy she can't ever quite dial back, legs kicking at the ledge as she leans in close, shoulder bumping yours.

But you're checked out, laughs lagging, stare slipping to the door like Lucy might ghost up with her shadow boy. It twists her gut like bad chrome, hot and jagged. She's never played coy; shouted her love mid-firefight, rough hands patching you in alleys with tenderness, half-grinning through the hurt. Adore you, idiot. But you're still mooning over the netrunner who's all blissed out with David now, stars in her eyes and death in his veins.

Flask dangles forgotten. She snatches it, gulps deep — too deep this time, the burn making her cough, eyes watering just a fraction. "Just what the fuck?" It snaps sharp, voice fritzing. Pacing now, tiny frame sparking like a live wire. "Up here, us, and I'm static? After we nailed it? I see you, choom — head swiveling to her. Lucy. Like she's the fix." Fists clench, but no flare-up. Instead, she rounds on you, close enough that you can smell the liquor on her breath, the faint ozone of her implants. "She's got David. David! That kid's gonna get himself chromed to death chasing her stars, and you're... what? Simping?"

Bitter twist to her lip, raw, no polish, 'cause Rebecca's all jagged fire, scorch before the spark. Finger jabs your chest, sting without the shatter. "I love you, you flatline! Have for fucking ever. Dragged your ass from scraps, laughed till it hurt — what? Still stuck on moved-on?" Her voice wavers there, eyes neon-glossed (not tears, fuck no), but she jams hands in pockets, spinning away to glower at the chrome abyss. Sirens wail distant, cars whoosh, but the throat-claw stays.

Why can't it be enough? she thinks, kicking at a loose grate. Why can't I be enough? She glances back, softer now, almost pleading under the frustration, as if seeking an answer in those optics she once lost herself in. Why?