The only time Emma truly felt alive each week was during her trip to the club.
In those brief moments, when the limousine glided through the bustling streets of Night City, she could almost forget the suffocating weight of her gilded cage. The profound sense of loss that had followed her husband's sudden rise to prominence had cut her adrift from the city's "high society." Once, she had been welcomed in Corporate Square, mingling with executives, their polished wives, and the illusion of stability that came with them. But now? Now she was tolerated, not embraced—an ornament rather than a partner.
Emma maintained her composure, the carefully cultivated mask of grace and elegance that society expected of her. Yet deep within, she yearned for recognition. She longed for eyes that truly saw her—not as "Hands' wife," but as Emma, a woman who had once commanded respect in her own right.
Hands had once been a corporate executive. Those days were almost like a dream. As his wife, Emma wielded real influence. She had a say in the concept of status, a voice at dinner tables where decisions shaping entire districts were made. She loved those days, loved the freedom of belonging to the inner circle. And Hands, in those early years, had offered her precisely that—freedom wrapped in luxury.
But that freedom had vanished.
Now, she lived in a cage built by Hands' ambition. Every move she made had to be carefully measured, every glance calculated. His enemies were everywhere, and even allies could turn overnight. Emma's world had shrunk into a cycle of guarded dinners, monitored calls, and carefully staged appearances.
Westbrook had become her refuge. The elites of Xianzhangshan and North Oak still considered Westbrook an acceptable destination—an alternative playground when Corporate Square felt too stifling. For a "fallen" wife like Emma, it was the perfect stage.
The Thrace 388 Jefferson limousine—a sleek, business-class beast painted in dazzling gold—glittered beneath the city lights. Gold had always been Emma's favorite color, a reminder of when wealth had felt like liberation instead of a leash.
The car rolled smoothly across the Kabuki District's river bridge, its engine purring with the promise of both speed and power. After exiting the ramp and merging onto Japan Street, the ride grew slower, steadier. Emma reached up, adjusting her hair in the window's reflection, ensuring not a strand was out of place. Appearances mattered. They always did.
Hands' business was thriving. Pacifica and Dogtown owed him favors, and his influence stretched farther than most dared to admit. Yet, for Emma, financial success was irrelevant. What gnawed at her was his status.
After all, no matter how high a middleman climbed, he remained just that—a broker. A convenient link in someone else's chain of power. Never the real thing.
"Ma'am, we're almost there," the bodyguard in the front observed.
Emma's gaze flicked toward the heavy traffic of Japan Street. She nodded, her voice soft but firm. "Yes. As long as we're on time."
She relished the attention the golden limousine drew. Executives and businessmen often paraded in Westbrook with their best cars, eager to flaunt their wealth. But only the careful ones brought bodyguards—without them, a car like hers would be tagged with Mox graffiti or left with Tiger Claw slash marks before the night ended.
A sudden squeal of brakes jolted the vehicle.
Emma leaned slightly, her face impassive, though her fingers tightened on the leather armrest. In the rearview mirror, she caught the bodyguard's panicked glance.
"Ma'am," he cursed, "that damn kid ran right in front of us—"
Emma silenced him with a raised hand. She despised swearing, especially in her presence.
Behind the bulletproof, one-way glass, she saw him—a young man in a loose leather jacket, a heavy gun bag slung across his back. He paused in the middle of the street, offering an apologetic bow and a warm, disarming smile.
Emma, chin resting lightly on her hand, studied him while the traffic light held her car in place.
She knew most street punks these days styled themselves with grotesque modifications: protruding cybernetic eyes, jagged facial implants, mechanical tattoos crawling across half their faces. But this young man was different. His features were striking, almost classical—deep-set eyes, sharp lines, and just enough prosthetic work to seem modern without tipping into vulgarity. He embodied a balance of flesh and chrome that matched Emma's aesthetic perfectly.
"Well," she murmured, lips curving into a faint smile, "it seems Japantown is learning a little about aesthetics after all."
The bodyguard wisely held his tongue. He had learned on his first day that conversation with the lady was not permitted.
The light changed, traffic moved, and the young man disappeared into a side street. Emma let her gaze linger for just a moment longer before turning away.
Her phone buzzed.
"What's wrong, dear?" she answered in flawless French.
Hands' voice came through the line, heavy with disapproval. "Things have been dangerous lately. You shouldn't be out."
Emma's laugh was soft, edged with scorn. "Oh? Did some street boy bruise your pride? Mr. Hands, my dear, you really shouldn't project your fears onto me."
"Remember," he warned, "the child bred from medical experiments—that is my greatest concession."
Emma rolled her eyes. "And I'm a stickler for marriage, aren't I?"
A sigh drifted through the receiver. "Fine, fine. If it makes you happy, go. But I'm sending more guards. Nothing is more important than your safety."
She hung up before he could continue. Frustration churned in her chest like acid.
Life with Hands was a performance—a proper, traditional German couple, impeccable in public, passionless in private. It was like a risotto without salt: rich in color, bland in taste.
Sometimes Emma fantasized about something absurd, like being kidnapped by mercenaries, just so Hands would be forced to act. At least then she'd breathe something other than recycled air.
For now, though, the Mewtwo Club would have to do.
The skyscraper towered above Japantown, its Arasaka architecture screaming wealth and security. Festivals and events were often held here, and the top floor hosted the exclusive Mewtwo Club—a playground for the city's restless elite.
Emma's limousine rolled to a stop. The bodyguard hurried around to open the door, and she stepped gracefully out, one hand holding her thigh-high dress to keep its sleek fabric from catching. The dress—straight from a Corporate Square boutique—hugged her curves like a second skin, designed to flaunt, not conceal.
"Tell the Heinz people not to stumble into the elevator like idiots. Wait for me," she instructed coolly. Tonight, she intended to drink until her edges blurred.
She glanced up at the glowing tower. A sleek sports car purred to a halt nearby, and out stepped Liz Vicky, the popular singer whose prosthetic-heavy stage persona had captivated fans across the city. Her exaggerated chrome features gleamed under the neon.
"Ma'am, your dress is stunning," Liz said smoothly, her voice honeyed with flattery.
Emma's smile was flawless, her practiced shield. She let herself be ushered into the chatter and laughter of the upper class, leaving her guard to drive the limousine around to the back entrance for her eventual return.
As soon as the car vanished from sight, the bodyguard's mask of professionalism cracked. His jaw tightened, bitterness dripping from his thoughts.
"Damn it, stupid bitch. Another docked bonus thanks to her precious brakes," he muttered, slamming the wheel.
He hadn't forgotten the boy in the street. Emma's gaze lingered too long on him. That smile—her interest—it was humiliating.
And then he saw him again.
Not far away, crouched by a steaming manhole, the young man was fiddling with something, his head tilted with casual indifference.
The bodyguard's lips curled into a cruel grin. Wouldn't it be easy to earn back those three hundred euros?
William noticed him instantly. Through his peripheral vision, his cybernetic optics tracked the guard's movements. Cameras lined the street, so he waited patiently.
Come closer, William thought. Let's test what these new implants can do.
The bodyguard approached, fists clenched, fury radiating from every step. "Hey! You little bastard! Stop right there."
William rose slowly, spreading his hands in a mock gesture of innocence. His leather jacket creaked as he moved, the gun bag still slung across his back.
The guard grabbed his collar, snarling. "Do you have any idea how much you cost me?"
William tilted his head, calm, unbothered. "Hmm? I don't even know you."
The two edged into a blind spot where the cameras no longer reached.
"One thousand euros," the bodyguard spat. "Pay me now, or I'll make sure the NCPD drags your broken body off the street."
William's hand shot up, wrapping around the man's wrist with shocking strength.
"Relax," he said softly.
The bodyguard's face paled. The kid was too strong. He reached instinctively for his gun, but William was faster, pinning his hand in place.
Is Lao Wei's prosthetic work really this powerful? William wondered. It's not top quality… maybe this guy is just weak.
With a sharp motion, William's knee drove into the man's temple. His elbow followed, cracking against the guard's skull.
The bodyguard crumpled instantly.
William dragged him into a nearby alley, stripped off his suit, and slipped into it with practiced ease. From the man's pocket, he retrieved a battered pack of cigarettes. He lit one, exhaling smoke as he tossed newspapers over the unconscious form.
When the cameras swept back, all they saw was a bodyguard with his head bowed, smoking, walking casually toward Emma's car. He opened the door, slid inside, and shut it without fuss.
Nothing unusual at all.