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By the time the crew rolled back into the Afterlife, the sun had already surrendered to the neon glare of Watson.
Maine led the charge down the underground stairs. Jax looked at the security guard—the same stone-faced sentinel from before—and wondered if the man ever actually slept, or if he just drew power from the misery of the street. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of cheap synth-smoke and expensive desperation.
The crew found a corner booth in the main hall. Dorio had already vanished toward the bar to secure a round of drinks, leaving the rest of them in a tight, expectant circle.
Jax watched Maine. The big man was restless, his heavy boot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor. "Excited?" Jax asked.
"Nonsense!" Maine hissed, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We're sitting on a gold mine, Jax. We keep the best chrome for ourselves and flip the rest. We're talking hundreds of thousands of eddies. Maybe more if we play the buyers right."
"Forget the eddies for a second," Pilar interjected, leaning forward. "We need to figure out how to handle 'Kerfu the Many-Faced'."
Pilar wasn't just some techie with oversized arms. As the son of "Papa Sunrise," a legend in his own right, Pilar knew the unspoken laws of the street. He'd seen crews far bigger than theirs get stepped on by the megacorps like they were bothersome insects.
"Kerfu screwed us," Pilar continued, his voice low and jagged. "A Fixer can be a leech, sure. They can take a massive cut. But they aren't supposed to lure you into a meat grinder on purpose. If we let this slide, Maine's crew becomes a joke. A bunch of marks."
In Night City, reputation was a shield. If Kerfu got the first word out, he'd paint them as the failures who botched a simple job. In this circle, a Fixer's word carried more weight than a merc's life. If they didn't strike first, they were already dead—it was just a matter of who pulled the trigger.
"If we don't handle this right, it's not just Arasaka we have to worry about," Pilar said, lacing his fingers behind his head. "It's the end of our careers. We'll be ghosts."
"Pilar, can you talk to Wakako?" Maine asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Pilar snorted. "Wakako? That old auntie doesn't take sides unless there's a mountain of profit at the end of it. She rose to power by burying nine husbands. You think she cares about a few edgerunners from Santo Domingo? 'Love is a luxury, a grave is a necessity'—that's her creed. She won't risk her standing in Japantown for us."
Maine let out a long, heavy sigh. He had the muscle, sure. But in this city, muscle was a consumable. The average lifespan of a greenhorn was three months. If you were good—if you were lucky—you lasted a year or two before a high-difficulty gig claimed your soul. Legends? Legends only lived on the drink menu at the Afterlife.
Dorio returned with the tray, sliding glasses of industrial-strength vodka across the table.
"To hell with the variables," Maine announced, raising his glass. He looked at Kiwi, his wide grin returning. "Come on, sis. Have a drink. Starting today, we're family."
Kiwi stared at the glass, her defensive posture unyielding. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."
"Don't be a bore," Maine laughed, forcefully pressing the glass into her hand. "You dived into the net for us today. You're already in the blood. Welcome to the crew."
Kiwi looked at the liquid, her eyes flickering behind her mask. The tension in her shoulders didn't disappear, but she didn't put the glass down.
"To the crew!" Rebecca cheered, upending her drink in a single, practiced motion.
Jax took a sip of his own. The vodka was a chemical burn that felt strangely right. He knew he was a Mox at heart—that he'd eventually head back to the basement of Lizzie's—but in this moment, under the flickering lights of the Afterlife, he didn't mind the company. He had enough emotional intelligence to know when to just be a teammate.
The hours bled away as the club filled with the night-shift elite. Jax sat between Sasha and Maine, watching the crowd. Suddenly, Rebecca stood up, her small, fleshy hands slapping Pilar's cheeks to wake him up.
"Bro! Look!" she hissed, pointing toward the entrance.
Jax turned. A woman had just walked in. She wore a yellow, waist-length jacket, black tactical pants, and moved with a terrifying, understated confidence.
Rogue Amendiares.
The club went quiet. The air itself seemed to grow thinner as she passed, ignoring the stares. She exchanged a brief nod with Claire at the bar and disappeared into the restricted back area—the sanctuary of the city's true gods.
Maine watched her retreating figure, the light from the neon reflecting off his shades. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for five years.
"I really don't know when we'll reach that position..." he whispered.
Dorio draped a massive arm over his shoulder, pulling him close. "It'll happen, Maine. Look at us. We've got Kiwi. We've got Jax. We're stronger than we've ever been."
"It's only a matter of time," she promised.
Maine looked at Jax, then finished his drink. He wanted to believe her. But in the back of his mind, a cold, logical voice reminded him that in Night City, time was the one thing no mercenary could ever afford to buy.
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