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The night wind was a biting, jagged thing on the outskirts of Santo Domingo. The highway was only a dozen meters away, its low-rise shanties and concrete blocks huddled together like orphans in the dark.
Jax took a deep breath of the wasteland air. After the clinical, neon-slick heights of the City Center, the grit under his boots felt strangely grounding. Night City was a machine designed to separate the two: the poor died in the dust, and the rich died in the clouds.
He brushed his hair back, untying the spare hair tie Rita had left on his wrist, and pulled his black hair into a tight, practical ponytail. Then, he looked at Sasha.
She was standing a few paces ahead, her back to him, her hands clasped behind her. She was on her tiptoes, leaning into the wind as if she could smell the coming rain. Her bodysuit—a specialized, high-conductivity weave—had several fresh tears from the office firefight, revealing patches of pale skin.
"Don't you have anything you want to ask me?" she said suddenly, her voice carrying over the low hum of distant traffic.
"Like what?" Jax replied, his voice flat. "I thought I was supposed to mind my own business."
Sasha turned around, a flicker of exasperation crossing her features. The wind tossed her dark hair, revealing a faint, hidden root of red. "You really know how to hold a grudge, don't you?"
She took a step closer, her expression turning somber. "Securicine. Have you ever heard of it?"
"Never."
"It's a neural enhancer. Relieves pain, suppresses fatigue, sharpens the senses. On paper, it's a miracle for the working class," Sasha said with a cold, hollow smile.
Jax listened. He had spent years as a "trash can" for the Moxes' secrets—the girls at Lizzie's always felt safe spilling their hearts to the quietest man in the gang. He knew when to talk and when to just let the air hold the weight.
Sasha told him the story—the expensive doses she'd bought for her mother, the hope she'd felt, and the clinical, sudden cremation that followed. She spoke of the data she'd found tonight: the reports Biotechnica had buried, the degenerative nerve lesions they'd ignored for profit.
"I killed my mother with my own hands, Jax. I fed her the scam," she whispered, her blue-pink eyes shimmering with a sudden, sharp grief. "I thought I didn't want to live anymore. I just wanted to burn them down. I sent the data to 54 News. They're backed by Militech, and Militech loves a chance to bleed Biotechnica."
"I heard 54 News was NUSA territory," Jax interjected quietly.
Sasha sighed. "I'm a hacker, Jax. A good one. I know the backdoors. NUSA, Militech—it's the same bed. President Myers was the CEO of Militech before she took office. It's an inauguration ritual: run the corporation, then run the country."
She stretched, a feline movement that spoke of a sudden, heavy burden being lifted. "Tomorrow, the news will break. Biotechnica will pay a fine, 54 News will get a payout, and the world will keep spinning. But at least I know. The secret is out of me."
Jax reached into his jacket and tossed her a bottle he'd swiped from the safehouse. Sasha caught it, looked at the label, and took a long, burning swallow. She handed it to Jax, her eyes slightly glassy.
"Thank you. For listening," she said.
Task (Rescue) Completed.Reward: Body 9.15. New Skill: Potential Overdraft.
Jax felt the surge of power settle into his marrow. He glanced at the new skill—a thirty-second burst of raw, violent potential. He looked back at Sasha, who was now perched on the highway guardrail, her legs swinging over the edge.
"Jax, where are you going to stay?" she asked. "You can't go back to the Moxes right now. Westbrook is out, and the City Center is a death trap."
"I was thinking about a motel," Jax said.
"No. Stay in Santo Domingo. This is where the crew operates. Maine wants to buy a real base in Rancho Coronado soon. I'll help you find a place—a real apartment. Give me two days."
Jax nodded. A real home. After five years of sleeping in a club basement, the thought was almost intoxicating.
They took turns with the bottle until the industrial-strength alcohol began to blur the edges of the world. Sasha's face was flushed, her voice losing its professional sharpness. She looked less like a lethal netrunner and more like the girl she might have been before the city took her mother.
"Ask me something," she prompted, her head tilting. "Maine says once you bleed together, you're family. Don't just sit there like a statue."
Jax looked at her, the alcohol giving him a rare moment of unfiltered curiosity. "Sasha... are you a 2D fan?"
Sasha froze. Her eyes went wide, then blinked slowly. "What?"
"I mean... Danger Girl," Jax clarified, feeling a bit of heat in his own cheeks. "The cat ears, the pink gear, the aesthetic. It's a very 2040s 'Armed Sister' vibe."
He'd seen the old braindances. He'd seen the fashion reports. While the rest of the world was obsessed with grim-dark street gear, Jax had a secret soft spot for the "Cute and Lethal" look of the past.
Sasha's jaw dropped. Then, she let out a delighted, high-pitched laugh. "You're a fan too?! I knew it! Maine and the others think I'm just being a kid. They don't understand the craft! Danger Girls are legendary."
She reached into her bag with manic energy, pulling out a custom-modded pistol. "Look! Danger Girl collaboration Omaha. Signed by Rinata herself. It cost me twenty thousand eddies."
Jax leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers as they pored over her treasures. She showed him her phone—a gallery of old-school tech-idols and rare gear. In the cool night air of the wasteland, the "bodyguard" and the "hacker" disappeared. They were just two people obsessed with a forgotten fashion, huddled together over a glowing screen while the city burned in the distance.
Jax didn't even notice that his arm had found its way onto the rail behind her, or how close they had drifted. For a moment, the "rules of the game" didn't matter.
Inside the container, the mood was less romantic.
"Why aren't they back yet?!" Pilar wailed, his long arms flailing as he paced the metal floor.
"Shut it, Pilar," Maine grunted. He was busy talking to Dorio about the future. They needed more people—another runner to take the load off Sasha, maybe a driver who didn't drink as much as Maine did.
Rebecca, sitting on a crate of ammo, finally had enough. She delivered a sharp, tactical chop to the back of her brother's neck.
"I said SHUT UP!" she barked. She looked toward the door, her red eyes narrowed. She knew what was happening out there. She'd seen the way the "natural" looked at Sasha.
"Maine," she muttered, "I think our bodyguard just got a permanent contract."
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