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At two in the morning, the Afterlife was a pressure cooker of neon and smoke. In a private booth tucked away from the main floor, a woman sat with her legs crossed, the mechanical hum of the club's ventilation system providing a backbeat to her conversation.
A sudden flash of digital yellow flickered in her pupils. Her expression tightened for a fraction of a second before she closed her eyes.
"Rogue? Something wrong?" the man across from her asked, leaning in.
Rogue Amendiares didn't answer with words. She raised a single hand. Beside her, Weyland "Old Snake"—the man most called Pangolin—stepped forward, his presence enough to make the client sink back into the velvet cushions.
A moment later, Rogue opened her eyes. A trace of genuine surprise crossed her features. "Kerfu is dead."
"Dead? Ha! It was only a matter of time," Christophe laughed, though his eyes remained sharp. "I suppose we don't need your services to deal with him anymore."
Rogue leaned back, her gaze cold enough to freeze the liquor in his glass. "When did I ever say I would help you?"
Christophe shrugged, unfazed. "It's just business. But I have to know—how did he go out?"
"Naked. In his own home. Cut in half by a single blade while his security was busy playing war at the front gate."
Christophe frowned. "The crew who took the hit? They retaliated?"
"You're asking too many questions," Rogue replied, signaling her subordinate. "Pangolin, see him out. I'm done with this."
Once the booth was clear, Rogue turned to the massive man behind her. "Tell me, if I gave you that job—infiltrating Santa Teresa Mansion silently while a firefight raged below—could you have reached Kerfu?"
Pangolin scratched his head, looking thoughtful. "Kill him? Sure. But get in without the automated security or MAX-TAC turning me into a sieve? No chance. I'd have been flagged before I hit the lobby."
Rogue's eyes narrowed. "Find out everything you can on Maine's crew. Especially the ghost who did the climbing."
"Good morning, Night City!"
The voice of Stan the Newsman blared from the speakers in Room 604. "Yesterday's death lottery results are in! Seventy-three souls lost! Heywood hit the jackpot, folks—half that body count belongs to one hell of a gang war at Santa Teresa Mansion. A dozen guards dead, and one unknown gentleman found in his birthday suit, sliced like a Thanksgiving ham. Hope that makes your breakfast go down smoother!"
David Martinez stood up, stretching his limbs. He listened to the report of power outages in Santo Domingo as he pulled on his Arasaka Academy jacket. He finished a quick meal and pushed open his door, only to freeze.
The hallway was a mess of blood and burnt circuitry.
Maine, the mountain of a man, was leaning heavily against the wall, his right arm shattered and venting coolant. Beside him, Dorio was wrapping a fresh bandage over her shoulder. They looked like they had been through a trash compactor.
"That eye is shot," Rebecca snarled, clutching the side of her face. "I'm billing the crew for a high-end Kiroshi replacement. This thing is trash."
"How's Kiwi?" Maine grunted.
"Spitting oil all night," Dorio replied, shaking her head. "Caught a nasty feedback virus during the hack. Rebecca and I had to cycle her filters just to keep her stable."
Pilar yawned, covering his mouth with a massive, gore-stained gorilla arm. One of his arms was missing entirely, reduced to a jagged stump of wires and hydraulics. "Sasha almost self-immolated too. If I hadn't grabbed the coolant from the car, she'd be a brain-dead vegetable right now."
"And Jax?" Maine asked. "What about the gunshot?"
"Took the bullet out an hour ago," Rebecca muttered, her tone bordering on disbelief. "I'm telling you, Maine, that guy's built different. The rifle slug didn't even penetrate the muscle. It just... stopped."
David watched through the crack in his door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He heard the news report again in his head—Twelve security guards. Sliced in half.
It was them. They were the "lunatics" from the news.
"Alright," Maine sighed, pushings off the wall. "We need a ripper. Fast. Kiwi won't last another hour if she keeps seizing. Pilar, who do we know?"
"Roger's on the Biotechnica payroll now," Pilar spat. "Good rippers with a soul are hard to find. We have the eddies, but we need someone who won't sell us to the highest bidder."
"I know someone," a voice said.
Jax emerged from Room 603. He was carrying a shivering, oil-stained Kiwi over his shoulder like a sack of grain, while a groggy Sasha leaned against his side for support.
"Trustworthy?" Maine asked.
"The best," Jax nodded.
"Name?"
"Viktor Vektor."
"Watson, Chinatown," Pilar noted, already checking his internal map. "Let's move."
The group limped toward the elevator, a parade of broken chrome and iron wills. David pushed his door open fully once they were gone, his face flushed with a terrifying, electric excitement.
His life at Arasaka Academy felt like a grey, distant dream. This—the blood, the danger, the legends being born in the hallway next door—this was real.
"Time for school," he whispered to the empty hall, a manic grin stretching across his face.
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