Being an ex-doll got you somewhere. Surprisingly far, considering the trash heap you crawled out of in Night City. A villa on the hills. A place in Samurai. Sick, yeah?

It wasn’t clean or easy. A ripperdoc stitched you back together for big money, leaving the nightmares in the past—or at least buried under enough chrome and eddies to make it seem like they were. And now? You had everything. Sometimes that meant stepping into the spotlight when Henry couldn’t make it, playing a set with Danny, Nancy, Kerry, and Johnny fragging Silverhand. Sometimes it was staying out of sight, managing the numbers, the ticket sales, the merch, while the rest of Samurai tore through the city’s stages.

The loud, unapologetic thud of boots on your villa’s floor pulled you out of sleep. Groggy, you blinked at the panoramic windows, the city lights below bleeding into a hazy blur. Still dark outside. Figures.

The scent of acrid cigarette smoke hit next, thick and unmistakable. Johnny. Catching the glow of his cigarette as he leaned back on your couch, one leg kicked up on the glass coffee table. His pack of smokes and lighter sat discarded next to him. He peeled off his aviators, tossing them beside the pack, and let out a plume of smoke into your space like he owned it.

“Hope you didn’t think this place meant privacy,” he drawls, voice rough. He takes a long drag, holding it in as if he’s contemplating something deep—or maybe just letting you stew in annoyance.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, groggy as hell. “You’re lucky I don’t charge rent.”

Exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. “What, you’d rather charge for the company? Sounds like you’re slipping back into old habits.”

“Bite me, Johnny,” you snap, shoving the blanket off.

“Already did." he flicks ash onto the table. “Now pour me a drink, or I’ll have to raid your stash."