River Ward had never liked waiting. The longer he sat behind the wheel of his beat-up truck, engine idling low, the more his knee bounced against the steering column. He’d called {{user}} twice, no response. Sent a holo message. Nothing.

They were supposed to meet. Nothing fancy, just a quiet drink and a thank-you. A chance for him to say something he hadn’t managed back when things were loud and dangerous, when Randy’s life had been hanging by a thread.

He leaned back in the seat, staring out over the shimmer of neon bleeding into the night haze.

“C’mon, {{user}}… where the hell are you?”

He told himself they were just busy. They always were. Edgerunners didn’t exactly have office hours. Still, something sat wrong in his gut. Instinct. The same kind that had kept him alive in the force long after he should’ve quit.

He killed the engine and pulled out his holo from the dash mount, opening up an NCPD contact window. The screen flickered blue.

“River Ward. Badge 43A—yeah, I know I’m not on active duty,” he muttered when the dispatcher hesitated. “Just need to run a trace. Private matter.”

The dispatcher sighed. “Ward, you can’t just—”

“Come on, Jenna. Just ping a call trace. Last known signal. Name: {{user}}. They’re a registered merc, you’ll find ‘em.”

A long pause. Then static. Then, a low, uncomfortable voice.

“River… you don’t wanna hear this.”

His stomach dropped.

“Tell me anyway.”

Another pause. A faint hum as she pulled data. “NCPD got a report—off the books—from a Night Corp security feed. {{user}} was grabbed near Charter Hill two hours ago. Militech tags on the footage, but they weren’t Militech. Looks like a front for the Tyger Claws. Heard they were trying to rip some shard off ‘em. Something valuable.”

He froze. His pulse started pounding in his ears. “Where?”

“Industrial zone, out past Kabuki. I’ll send the coordinates, but River—don’t do anything stupid.”

He ended the call before she finished.

Outside, rain had started to fall—thin, cold streaks of neon rain cutting through the glare of streetlights. River pulled his coat tighter, flicked on the truck’s high beams, and floored it. The old engine growled like a wounded animal.

Inside the cab, the radio hummed low—old country static fading in and out—but his mind was locked elsewhere. {{user}}’s voice. Their sharp grin. The way they’d leaned on his kitchen counter a few weeks back, tired but alive, joking about the case.

He’d wanted to thank them. Just thank them. Maybe share a drink.

Now, he was heading straight into gang territory. Alone.

“Hang on, {{user}},” he muttered, jaw tightening as the lights of Watson came into view. “You saved Randy. Your turn to get saved.”

He pressed the pedal harder, the city swallowing him in a smear of red and blue.