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Downstairs, at the foot of the skyscraper—
Jax watched as a brand-new vintage car pulled up to the curb. Its retro appearance, somewhat resembling an old-fashioned luxury sedan, was complemented by a sleek body, elegant lines, and a gradient paint job that made it incredibly eye-catching under the morning sun.
Maine stepped out, casually leaning his heavy, augmented hand on the hood as he turned to look at Jax with a predatory grin.
Jax looked at the car and then at Maine, chuckling. "The money hasn't even hit our accounts yet, has it? You're moving fast, Maine."
"The dealer knew we landed a big job from Rogue, so he let me take it on credit. I'll transfer the eddies later; he's an old friend." Maine patted the hood affectionately. "How about it, Jax? Beautiful, right? This is a third-generation Rayfield from decades ago. What's the slogan? 'Rayfield: The Choice of Status and Position!'"
Clearly, Maine was absolutely smitten with his new toy. Beside him, Dorio covered her face with one hand, shaking her head in a helpless manner. To her, this was a thirty-year-old antique with a sky-high price tag. If it were up to her, she'd have bought a modern Mizutani or a Herrera—something with actual replacement parts. But Maine was obsessed with the classics.
"Brother, how much did this beast set you back?" As a son of Heywood, Jackie naturally had a soft spot for traditional, chrome-heavy classics. He walked over, eyes wide with envy, and started circling the vehicle.
Jackie had just arrived from across town, having set off early to meet the group before they headed up to find Jax.
"Sixteen thousand," Maine said proudly. "Since it's an older model, it's relatively 'cheap' for a Rayfield. I found this treasure through a contact."
Rayfield, the British luxury giant, was known for supercars like the Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake—aerocars that cost more than most mercenaries made in a lifetime. Even black-market versions were too hot to handle; they were so rare that driving one was basically a neon sign asking for a corporate hit squad. But this "antique" was different. It was older than Maine himself, yet its interior was pristine, and its armored plating was far stronger than its elegant lines suggested. You get what you pay for.
"Alright, load up! We're going to Viktor's!" Maine called out.
The seating arrangement was quickly settled. Jackie, desperate to feel the leather of the Rayfield, tossed his own car keys to Jax and scrambled into Maine's passenger seat. Dorio gracefully moved to the back to let the "car brothers" talk shop.
That left Jax responsible for driving the three women in Jackie's car. Did Jax have a driver's license? Of course not. Why would he? In a city where five-year-olds could legally carry submachine guns, driving without a plastic card was the least of anyone's concerns.
As the vehicles merged onto the main highway, the neon signs of the morning faded into the harsh glare of the sun. Jax flipped on the radio, tuning it to Body Heat Radio. Coincidentally, the song playing was one he'd always liked: "I Really Want to Stay at Your House."
Listening to the melancholic tune, Jax found it strangely amusing. He wondered what Lucy would think if she heard it—the song that, in another timeline, would become her "Cyber Widow" anthem.
As the music filled the cabin, a faint sound came from the back seat.
Sniff, sniff...
It sounded like a puppy searching for a scent. Jax glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Rebecca leaning over, her small head buried in Sasha's shoulder, sniffing vigorously. Then, Rebecca pulled back and lunged forward to sniff the back of Jax's neck.
"What are you doing?" Sasha asked, looking at Rebecca with genuine confusion.
Jax raised an eyebrow in the mirror. Kiwi just rolled her eyes and stared out the window.
"Why do you smell like Jax?" Rebecca asked, her voice deadly serious as she stared at Sasha.
Sasha froze, then gave a classic "silly cat" smile. Should she answer? Hell no. If Maine or Dorio had asked, Sasha might have bragged about "capturing" the team's handsome original-body solo. But this was Rebecca. In this situation, acting cute was the only survival strategy.
Jax had intended to be honest—he wasn't ashamed of his relationship with Sasha—but seeing the "Little Cat's" reaction, he followed her lead and shut his mouth. She looked silly, but she was sharp.
"Jax, why do you smell like Sasha's shampoo? That specific scent is only in her bag." Rebecca narrowed her eyes, her crimson cybernetic optics staring intently at Jax's reflection.
Jax remained silent, focusing intensely on the road ahead as if he were navigating a minefield.
Rebecca let out a sharp, annoyed "Tsk." She wasn't stupid. A man smelling of a woman, a woman smelling of a man, and the two of them being together when the crew arrived? The math wasn't hard.
In a fit of pique, Rebecca sat back and forcefully drove her elbow into Sasha's ribs.
Rebecca used the Little Bee Elbow Strike!Sasha took heavy damage!
The music was clicked off. Jax drove in absolute silence, staring straight ahead. Sasha leaned against the window, feigning a deep sleep with her cat-ear headband slightly askew. Rebecca sat in the middle, pouting with her chubby hands clenched into fists on her thighs.
Kiwi, watching the city blur past, felt a rare smile tug at the corner of her mouth. In this chaotic, "shitty" team, every day brought a new kind of entertainment.
Maybe, she thought, joining them hadn't been such a bad choice after all.
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