The wind howls outside like a living thing–
screaming past the crate's seams, vibrating the steel walls so hard it feels like they're about to peel away.
Inside, the three of you are jammed against the inner walls, your backs and limbs crushed together, the silence shattered by the groan of stressed metal and your own gasping breath.
Your vision still swims from the pain, but your instincts claw their way back.
You brace.
You think this is it.
But then–
Alex moves.
Not for the gun.
Not for your throat.
Her expression is grim, tight–lipped, brows drawn in focus.
Survival instinct overrides everything else.
She reaches over you, gun abandoned, her arm brushing your jaw, shoulder knocking against Aurore as she accesses the embedded control panel on the inner wall.
Her fingers move fast. Deliberate. Efficient.
"Shit. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon – fucking override protocol – goddammit," she mutters under her breath, voice clipped, unshaken.
You feel Aurore against your back, tense, gripping your arm tightly, her breath fast in your ear, trying not to panic.
The crate groans.
A warning tone chirps.
Then–
"There we fucking go!" Alex exclaims.
THWUMP.
The thrusters ignite.
The force hits like a brick wall to the chest, slamming you down into the crate's floor, inertia shifting violently as the freefall stabilises into a controlled descent.
The howl outside quiets – not gone, but managed.
There's a moment of calm.
Breath is exhaled.
Your ears ring.
Alex leans back, panting heavily, her hand falling away from the console.
"You two… are more fucking trouble than–"
WHAM.
A massive impact – like the fist of a god slamming into the crate from the side.
There's no time to think. No time to react.
The world goes sideways, your body slammed into one wall, Aurore's personal cable yanking taut, then snapping free.
Alarms blare.
Red lights flash – then die.
The crate spins, grinding metal shrieking as gravity claws it into some hellish orbit.
CRASH.
The side tears open, reinforced metal ripping away like foil.
Light floods in – blinding.
Alex is ripped away, her scream snatched by the wind before it even entirely leaves her lips.
And then–
Black.
Pain brings you back.
Not light.
Not sound.
Pain.
A red–hot siren in your shoulder, screaming behind your clavicle like someone drove rebar through the joint and twisted it for extra effect.
Your eyes crack open to a tilted, broken world.
You're on your side, half–pinned in the corner of the crate. The once–tight space is now twisted and torn, metal buckled inward, crumpled like paper.
Thick white dust floats in the beams of light cutting through the wreckage.
You blink.
Everything is fuzzy.
Shapes blur.
The pain is so intense it has a rhythm.
Your right arm is dead weight – numb from the shoulder down, fingers barely twitching.
You shift, and the crate groans beneath you–
A long, metallic creak.
The floor… or, what was once the side wall, tilts upward slightly.
Then you realise – you're not flat.
The crate is balanced on an edge.
Teetering.
Slowly – gently – you lift your head, neck stiff, eyes adjusting to the image before you.
Beyond the destroyed top of the crate lies what appears to be a dilapidated apartment complex – collapsed concrete, torn wallpaper, flickering light strips dangling from sparking wires.
There's a hallway there, stretching into rubble and silence.
You feel a shifting warmth behind you.
Aurore.
She's still here.
Slumped against the wall next to you–her hair falling loose over her forehead, arm tucked awkwardly beneath her. She's unmoving.
Unconscious.
No blood from what you can see.
No visible wounds.
But you can't be sure.
You breathe slow.
Steady.
In through the nose, out through teeth clenched against pain.
The crate creaks again, a warping groan that sets your teeth on edge. It shifts under your weight – barely – but still too much.
You have no idea what this thing's resting on.
Could be two meters.
Could be twenty stories.
One misplaced movement and you both vanish into the unknown below.
You twist slightly, your entire torso screaming in protest, and reach back with your good arm, fingers searching until they find the base of Aurore's neck.
You pinch the muscle above her collarbone between two fingers and a thumb – a trapezius squeeze.
Not exactly gentle, but the kind of pain that might wake someone on the edge of unconsciousness.
She groans softly, curling away from the contact, but nothing more.
Still out.
"Fuck."
You freeze again, brain racing.
You can't risk leaving her here.
Your arm's injured, hell, probably a whole lot more of you is injured – it's gonna make dragging her a thousand times more difficult.
You'll both go.
Together.
You shift onto your side, gritting through the pain in your shoulder.
You slowly slide your good arm around her midsection, just beneath her ribs.
Her body is warm against yours, her breathing shallow, that slight flutter of her chest brushing your side. She feels smaller in your grip like this. Softer.
Not the razor–edged netrunner you argued with.
She lets out a small, involuntary vocalisation as you move her – a groggy, "Mnn…".
You hold her tight, tucking her weight into yours, and plant your boots carefully against the warped wall of the crate.
You inhale once.
Steady.
Then–
Your boots kick off the metal with a sick crunch of debris, and you hurl yourself and Aurore through the open maw of the crate – just as it shifts.
You hit the apartment floor hard, pain lancing up your spine, ribs cracking into the old tile.
Aurore rolls with you, limp in your grasp, her weight awkward.
And then–
CREEEEAAAAK
The crate, now freed of your weight, tilts backward.
It slides.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
And vanishes past the fractured lip of the floor.
Gone.
One long second.
Another.
Then–
CRASH
The sound echoes up from far below, a thunderous, splintering impact that makes the whole floor beneath you shudder.
You stare at the void where it was.
Second later, dust wafts back up.
Silence returns.
You look down at Aurore. Her lashes flutter.
Her voice is a whisper.
"Aymer…ic?"
Her breath catches. Her lips barely move.
She's not here.
Still in a concussion–induced dream.
Your heart sinks, guilt sliding like a knife between your ribs.
You don't correct her.
Don't break the illusion.
Maybe she deserves one more moment in the world where her brother's still alive.
You shift, just barely – then wish you hadn't.
Fire explodes up your shoulder when you try to move your right arm.
White–hot, soul–rattling pain.
Your grip fails, fingers twitching uselessly, and your lungs seize, refusing to pull in air as your body locks up from the sheer force of it.
"Shit–"
Your whole world goes fuzzy at the edges, vision greying under the weight of agony, the impact of what just happened catching up to you all at once.
You lean back, breath shallow, head lolling slightly as you force yourself to take stock.
There's blood on your shirt. You press into your side slowly.
No wet pulsations. No torn gut.
Just bruising and some lacerations. Probably fractured ribs.
But the shoulder's the worst.
Dislocated?
Broken?
You can't tell through the pain, but it's barely usable.
You sit there for a moment, drawing in ragged air, head spinning with the implications.
Where the fuck did you land?
Your mind jumps–
Alex.
Panam.
God. Panam.
You feel sick.
Did Alex take her out? Take her hostage?
You'd never thought someone could mimic Panam so convincingly – the walk, the attitude, the bite.
The level of talent. Planning. Resources.
When did she switch? Your mind goes back to those calls Panam never picked up. Was it then?
You look down the corridor.
Dusty, abandoned – violated by collapse. Chunks of concrete, dangling wires, shattered tile. Doors lining either side, all closed. All silent.
Strange.
No curious locals. No twitchy squatters. No animals skittering between shadows. Just the distant rumble of engines from streets far below, muffled by layers of rubble and shattered glass.
Pacifica.
Probably Dogtown.
Nowhere else in Night City has high–rises this gutted, this empty.
You glance at Aurore again – she's stirring slightly, brows knitting, lips parting, not quite awake but getting there.
Your breath catches as something else reaches your ears.
Breathing.
Stridulous. Wet. Ragged.
Like someone trying to suck air through a crushed windpipe.
You push yourself up with your good arm, teeth gritted hard enough to hurt. Every inch of movement is a negotiation between your muscles and your screaming joints.
But you make it.
Bent. Half–broken. Moving.
The sound leads you down the ruined hallway, past scorched wall panels and wires like veins torn from the concrete.
Then you see her.
Alex.
She's slumped against a wall just past a shattered doorway – like she dragged herself there, then lost the strength to go further.
She's barely upright, her head bowed, a deep, boggy contusion swelling grotesquely on the left side of her skull, skin bruising in dark purples and sickly yellows.
One eye is partially shut, blood trickling from her scalp and down her cheek.
The right side of her body is limp, one arm bent unnaturally, shoulder crushed inward.
And lower–
Both femurs are broken.
Bad.
Compound.
You can see the swelling, already ballooning into her thighs, pants soaked through with deep, arterial blood.
The smell hits next.
Coppery. Urine. Fear.
Her chest rises and falls with a sickening irregularity – like her lungs can't quite remember how to draw breath.
And yet–
She's conscious.
Her good eye flicks to you.
Focuses.
You start to speak, but your throat closes around the words.
Just the sound of your own breathing – fast, shallow, uneven – mingling with the sick, wet rasp of hers.
But the pressure inside you boils too hot.
You step forward, dragging your pain with you, and your voice finally rips free.
"Where the fuck is Panam?"
Alex doesn't blink.
Her one open eye narrows slightly, then flickers.
"Dead," she croaks.
Her voice is faint. A breath caught in broken ribs. "Where… do you think I got her clothes from?"
It hits like a bullet.
No clever wordplay.
No drawn–out explanation.
Just a fact, dropped like a hammer to your chest.
Your vision narrows.
Your gut twists.
You nearly vomit.
But your body won't give you that release.
Instead, you stagger backward a step.
Panam.
Gone.
Just gone.
"Why?!" you hiss through clenched teeth. "Why fucking kill her? Why not just – knock her out, lock her up? Run your op?
Alex exhales slowly. Blood bubbles on her lips.
"Hostages… carry risk. Corpses–" She sputters a filthy cough. "–don't."
No malice in the words.
No smugness.
Just cold logic, worn thin by blood loss.
"How… the FIA… operates."
A faint flicker of expression crosses her face.
Almost regret.
"Jesus, V... Thought you'd figured that out... After Aymeric."
The air between you goes still, heavy.
You want to hit her. To send fire through her nerves and burn her synapses out.
But instead, your legs start to go numb.
You lean against the opposite wall, staring down at the ruin of her body, and still – you don't understand.
Alex musters a good cough, a glob of something thick and red splattering to the floor; she pushes herself more upright and then draws in a more controlled breath.
"Panam never made it to the Afterlife," Alex mutters, almost absently. "We watched the place. Figured you'd show up. Sooner or later."
She coughs – wet, sputtering.
"Needed a face with weight. Trust. Nomads... they're tight–knit. If you're in, you're in. No suspicion. No questions. Implicit trust."
Her voice falters.
Her good eye goes glassy for a second, but she blinks it back.
And then–
"She didn't suffer."
She says it quietly.
Like it's the last mercy she has to give.
"It was clean... I made it clean."
And in those words, there is no joy, no justification.
Just resignation.
Like she knows that nothing she says now will make a difference.
But you still can't accept it. Panam – never quiet, never subdued – reduced to silence by some hidden blade in the dark? No chance. Nothing "clean" about it. Nothing painless. She would've fought, clawed, screamed defiance until the last breath tore from her chest. A death like that can't be sanitised, packaged neatly as a means to an end. Not for her. Never for her.
You're locked in that thought – stunned, shattered, oblivious to everything else.
Not the buzzing in your ears,
not the sting in your deadened arm,
not even footsteps approaching behind you.
First, a presence – a subtle shift in the air.
Then – a hand.
Aurore.
She doesn't look at you. Her gaze is fixed firmly on Alex. She moves you aside – not roughly, but decisively – drawn entirely to the woman slumped against the wall.
And then she erupts.
"C'était toi!"
It was you!
She swings–
Not hard,
but with the kind of raw, trembling force that's powered by pure hate.
Her fist connects with Alex's jaw, limp and unresisting.
"Tu l'as tué!"
You killed him!
Her voice cracks, words spitting out like blood.
"Mon frère! Tu l'as – tu l'as pris!"
My brother! You took him!
Another blow, barely landing, but she doesn't stop.
Her grief won't let her.
"You deserve to burn. You deserve to rot in the fucking dark, alone!"
She's shaking now, her whole body trembling, not just with rage but with the sheer depth of everything she's carried since the garage, since the escape, since that moment Aymeric died.
You catch it before she does–
Alex's left pupil blows out, wide and black.
Her mouth hangs open, slack.
Her head slips sideways.
Alex is dead.
But Aurore doesn't notice.
She keeps going, her voice tearing itself apart in rage and grief.
"Tu crois que tu mérites une sortie facile? Tu crois que mourir, c'est assez?"
You think you deserve an easy way out? You think dying is enough?
"Tu es pathétique. Tu es pitoyable. La mort, c'est une putain de grâce que tu ne mérites pas."
You're pathetic. Pitiable. Death is a fucking mercy you don't deserve.
You move then.
Gently.
You put your hand on her shoulder.
"Aurore," you say, low. "She's gone."
At first, she doesn't react.
She keeps cursing. Keeps muttering venom at the corpse like it can still hear her. Like her brother might be returned to her if she just says enough.
But then her words dissolve into shaky, shallow breaths.
Then sobs.
Ugly ones.
Human ones.
The kind that rip free without consent, without dignity.
She stumbles back from Alex's body and storms out, unable to be near it for another second.
You don't follow right away.
But you hear it.
Her crying.
Down the hallway.
Alone.
Bawling like a dam that's finally shattered.
You look at Alex one more time–
What's left of her.
Gone without justice.
Just another corpse in a city already drowning in them.
The wind shifts.
No – not wind. Rotor wash.
Thwop–thwop–thwop. Distant but growing. A mechanical heartbeat.
Then wheels – heavy, grinding – troop carriers squeezing through ruined streets. A barked command echoes below, amplified through a Barghest loudspeaker.
Dogtown. Definitely Dogtown. They've found the wreck – or they soon will. But they're here for cargo, expecting supplies in that crate. Maybe that's all they'll search for. If you're quiet, hidden, they might pass you by.
Pain surges again, dragging you violently back into your body. Your broken shoulder pulses angrily, each heartbeat sending sharp spikes through your neck. Ribs grind. Lungs flutter, uncertain with every ragged breath.
Thirty flights of stairs? You're not making that. Not like this. Hell, the building might not even have thirty intact floors left.
Still, you stumble into the hallway, palm scraping against the wall for support, fingers dragging trails through dust and peeling plaster. If running's not an option – maybe hiding is.
You glance back into the room.
At Alex – still slumped, still wearing Panam's gear. The boots, the jacket half–zipped, the Aldecaldo patch like a bitter joke.
It sits wrong on her.
But still, you remember the crate – remember the thrusters firing at the last second, shifting you from certain death to something survivable. Not kindness. Not redemption. Just cold calculation. Survival.
Yet without her–
You and Aurore would be paste on some boulevard by now, just another red smear and a brief news report.
The helicopter draws nearer, its thudding pulse reverberating through concrete, hunting. You snap back into motion, grinding your teeth against the pain.
"Aurore," you croak – your voice more sandpaper than sound.
You're barely upright, gripping the wall with your good hand, shoulder screaming, the tacky pull of drying blood against your skin.
She's hunched near the far end of the corridor, curled in on herself, shoulders shaking in silent, guttural sobs, her grief transforming shuddering hiccups.
She doesn't even look up when you speak.
Just crumpled, like all the tension that held her together these past days has finally let go.
But you can't stop.
You take a step toward her, nearly collapsing under your own weight.
The corridor spins, veering left and right like a ship caught in a storm.
"We have to hide," you say, staggering forward. "We have to move. Now."
You don't know if she hears you.
You press on, head swimming, the world doubling at the edges.
The corridor becomes a tunnel – narrower, darker.
You try door after door, your weight slamming against each handle, desperation mounting.
Locked.
Locked.
Rusted shut.
Caved in.
Nothing.
Then – sixth door.
The handle turns.
You nearly fall inside, catching yourself on a peeling doorframe.
The room smells of mould, metal, and memory.
Walls warped by water damage, floor littered with broken furniture and clothes that have long since forgotten their owners.
"Aurore!" you rasp, forcing your head back toward the door.
"In here!"
You don't know if she hears.
You're not even sure she cares.
But you can't stand anymore.
Your body surrenders, and you let yourself fall.
Your cheek hits cool tile.
Your vision blacks out around the edges.
Your ears are full of static.
Then a voice, languid, amused. "Well, fuck, V. Didn't quite see this comin'..."
And then everything fades.
There's blood in your mouth, thick and metallic, clinging to your tongue like copper shrapnel. Something else, too – dirt, fine and gritty, packed into the edges of your gums like sandpaper. You shift your jaw slowly, and it grinds faintly between your teeth.
You're on your back.
And it hurts.
Not the blazing agony from before – but a deep, rhythmic throb, especially in your shoulder. It pulses like a second heartbeat, every beat a reminder that you're still alive.
The mattress beneath you is barely that – half–rotted, the foam long since collapsed, springs digging into your spine, uneven and unrelenting.
The air is wet and stale.
The scent of old water damage, the kind that never really dries.
Underneath that, cement dust – a sharp, dry note from the ruptured building shell – and the thick, salty tang of your own sweat.
You shift.
Your eyes are gritty, like someone rolled them in ash.
And when they finally crack open, you see moonlight.
Gentle and silver, casting soft shadows across the floor.
It filters in through the fractured slats of a window above you.
But there's another light, too – harsh, yellowed, from the streets below, spearing in through the window, painting artificial incandescence across the ceiling.
You listen.
And the world is… quiet.
Not dead. Just distant.
The deafening thrum of the helicopter is gone.
No loudspeakers. No engines.
Just the hum of the city, breathing in the distance.
You sit up slowly.
The mattress squeaks, protesting under your weight, one of the springs catching just enough to make you wince.
Your body feels like a tapestry of bruises, stitched together with long–faded adrenaline.
A soft pixelation crawls into your vision, like static behind your eyes, curling at the edges of the moonlight–
Then Johnny fades into view.
Leaning against the crumbling wall across from the mattress, arms crossed, one boot hooked casually behind the other. His posture is as lazy as ever, but there's something more restrained in his eyes tonight. Less smirk, more presence.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he says, voice low, gruff – gravel ground fine by worry. "You looked like shit when you passed out. Somehow, you look worse now."
You blink, rub your temples. Your body still feels like it went through a few walls.
"How the fuck did I get here?"
Your voice is hoarse, like every word scrapes its way up.
"I don't remember anything after the door opened. After… Alex."
Johnny shrugs, half a grimace curling at his lip.
"Had to take the wheel for a sec." He pushes off the wall, begins to pace slowly in that way he does when he doesn't want to linger on a thought too long.
"Jammed your shoulder back in, scraped your sorry ass off the floor before you drowned in your own drool. You're welcome for the five–star accommodations."
You exhale through your nose, tired. Everything still hurts, but it's a reminder you're alive.
"Thought that was it, Johnny, when the lights went out. Figured I wouldn't wake up."
You look up at him, voice softer now, sincere.
"Thanks."
Johnny waves it off, but you keep going, hesitant.
"If you can just… grab the wheel like that…" You look down at your hands, flexing your working one. "Doesn't feel like there's much time left before the Relic makes it permanent. You driving. Me… gone."
Johnny stops pacing. Looks at you for a long second.
"C'mon, V." He smirks, cocking his head. "Like I'd wanna be stuck in your body permanently. My dick was twice the size, minimum."
You let out a breath– almost a laugh.
"You're a fucking asshole."
"Takes one to appreciate one, choom."
But the smirk fades a little, and when Johnny looks at you again, it's with that strange flicker of sincerity he only pulls out on rare occasions.
"You're right, though." He pauses. "Every time I step in, feels easier. More natural. Even though it's fuckin' not."
He walks closer, dropping down into a crouch beside the mattress. "But let's get one thing straight – I didn't grab the wheel 'cause I wanted a joyride. I did it 'cause you were bleeding, broken, and about half a tick away from flatlining. And so was she."
He doesn't have to say Aurore's name.
His voice lowers. Still Johnny, still sarcastic beneath it all, but there's an edge of truth to it that cuts sharper than most.
"You're not gone yet, V. Not by a long shot."
He stands, slowly pixelating back, his form already flickering.
He gives you one last look – wry, but not unkind.
"Get on your feet, V. Cure's still out there, Panam ain't gonna mourn herself, and the FIA ain't gonna stop 'cause of one dead agent."
You push open the door from the bedroom, the creak of rusted hinges slicing through the stillness like a whisper turned violent. The hallway into the main apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of the city filtering through half–shattered blinds – smears of neon and moonlight painting the walls in streaks of cold, colourless light.
The smell of mould, dust, and burnt wiring hangs thick. You step carefully, bare feet silent on cracked tiles, every joint protesting.
And then you see her.
Aurore.
She sits at a warped metal table, one leg curled beneath her, back slightly hunched. She turns an empty cup slowly between her fingers, eyes lifting as you enter.
She meets your gaze.
Her cheeks are dry, but her eyes are red and puffy. There's a bruise on the edge of her jaw, another faint one along her temple, and more, lightly scattered across her arms and hands.
She doesn't speak. Just watches you.
For a long moment, silence stretches between you. Nothing but ruins:
Of a building.
Of a mission.
Of a life.
You lean against the doorframe, chipped paint cool against your good shoulder, the other still throbbing with dull pain.
Aurore doesn't flinch under your gaze just continues turning the cup in her hands.
Then, finally–
"You weren't lying about the Relic."
Her voice is quiet, almost matter–of–fact.
But there's weight behind it.
"It was..." she searches for the right word, her brow knitting slightly, "...fucking weird, seeing someone else steer your body like that."
You offer a faint, dry smile.
She raises a brow, meeting your eyes again. "Guess that's why you started talking in third person. 'Get the fuck up, you French piece of shit – we gotta delta, V's gotta make it.'"
You blink, trying to remember.
You can't.
That was Johnny.
A dry half–smirk touches her lips. "He's a real charmer."
You nod once, tired.
"Yeah. That'd be him."
She doesn't bring up Alex. Not yet.
But it's there – in the tight curl of her fingers around the cup, in the brief flicker of her eyes downward. She circles the grief without touching it, not ready – maybe never.
She sets the cup down gently, a soft ceramic tap punctuating the silence.
"I wasn't sure," she says quietly. "About you. About your story." Her gaze lifts again. "Played along because I had to."
You nod. You understand that better than anyone.
"But this?" She gestures vaguely – at the apartment, your injured shoulder, the city groaning outside. "You wouldn't go through all this shit for a payday."
No accusation. Just recognition.
A pause.
"So… Songbird," she says, turning the name over carefully. "So Mi. Who is she exactly – that she can fix whatever's happening to you?"
You ease into the chair opposite her, slow and stiff, the metal frame creaking beneath your weight.
"I don't actually know that much," you admit.
Aurore raises an eyebrow slightly, prompting.
"She was NUSA, worked directly under President Myers. Top–tier netrunner – best I've seen outside myths people tell when they're high." You rub dried blood from your neck, eyes drifting toward the window. "First heard from her when Myers' shuttle crashed into Dogtown. She jacked into my system mid–fall, guided me through the wreck, helped me save the president. After that, I got tangled up with the FIA. Reed, Alex… their whole crew."
Her gaze shifts at Alex's name, but she stays silent.
"That led directly to your capture. Yours and Aymeric's." Your voice tightens. "I didn't know their full plan – not at first. But I saw enough to realise I couldn't keep going with them."
Aurore watches quietly.
"But Songbird?" you continue, softer now. "She's not FIA anymore. Doesn't want to be. She's desperate to escape – get as far from Myers and NUSA as she can." You lean back, wincing. "She said she can fix me. Said she's got something similar happening – like the Relic, but different. I don't know details; she didn't give any."
You shake your head slowly.
"But I've seen her netrun. How she moves, how she handles code… it's beyond anything I've ever seen. Beyond me, beyond you."
Aurore nods faintly, unbothered by the comparison.
"If anyone can fix this," you say simply, "it's her."
She sits with that for a moment, jaw shifting ever so slightly. The light from outside flickers across her face – highlighting the bruises, the grief, the uncertainty.
At first, there's nothing. Aurore's expression stays unreadable – brows slightly drawn, eyes downcast in thought. You wait, unsure if she's about to tear into you or walk away.
Then–
A quiet, unexpected sound.
A small laugh.
You blink. Confused.
She laughs again – slightly louder this time, a short breathy burst through her nose as she leans forward, cupping her hand lightly over her mouth.
Then she looks up at you, and for the first time in what feels like days, she looks...
Genuinely joyful.
"The president?" she says between chuckles, her accent a little thicker when she's laughing. "Mon dieu, V... that was definitely the plot of a shitty spy film."
You crack a smile, just a little.
But her laughter turns into a wince, and she braces an arm around her ribs.
"Ah – shit," she hisses, her tone still light despite the pain. "Shouldn't laugh. Everything hurts."
She leans back, eyes glimmering with amusement even as she grimaces.
"I'm glad you didn't start with that story in the car." She gestures vaguely. "You, saving the NUSA president, racing to a falling shuttle, flipping sides mid–op. I'd have asked if you hit your head."
You shrug, a bit sheepish. "Still might've."
But her expression shifts.
The amusement fades.
A shadow crosses her face – not doubt, not quite – but caution.
"That said..."
She meets your gaze again, slower this time.
"As crazy as it all sounds – I believe you, V."
A pause.
"But I'm not sure I believe her."
The words land heavier than you expect.
Not because they're cruel – she says it plainly, almost gently.
"Someone like that," she adds, "who plays both sides, lies to her allies, manipulates systems like they're toys..."
She looks away, out toward the window and the neon tower flickering beyond.
"People like her… things usually come with a hook."
You nod slowly, staring down at the cracked table between you, fingers tracing absent circles in the dust.
"I'm in too deep now," you say quietly. "Committed too much. Pulled too many people into this."
You don't say the name.
Don't need to.
It hangs there between you like a ghost.
Like Panam is still in the room, just out of sight.
Aurore turns her head toward you, eyes catching the moonlight in a way that makes them seem to glow faintly.
But now, up close, you catch something new.
A blooming, bright–red conjunctival haemorrhage in the white of her eye.
Small. Delicate.
A reminder of how hard you all landed.
How close she came to being just another body on the list.
It fractures the otherwise pristine gold of her iris like a crack across glass.
She doesn't blink when she meets your gaze.
"I'm sorry about her," she says, her voice low, even.
Each word lands like a hand on your shoulder – firm, not heavy.
"Panam."
She doesn't look away, and she doesn't rush it.
"It sounded like she was a strong person."
A pause.
"I'm sorry I didn't get to know her more. Or any of them."
She shifts in her seat, a faint grimace betraying her bruised ribs.
"The Aldecaldos seemed like good people."
There's no pretence in her voice. No performance.
Just a quiet kind of grief.
One that recognises yours.
You sit with her words, letting them settle in the quiet hum of the broken apartment.
Then you draw in a shallow breath, the kind that scrapes the ribs on its way out.
"I never said it properly."
She looks at you. You keep your eyes on the table.
"About Aymeric."
A pause.
"I'm sorry."
You feel her watching you.
"Back in the car, you told me what he meant to you. How you always thought you'd be the one keeping him out of the deep end."
Your voice cracks a little, not enough to lose the thread.
"And I dragged you both right into it."
You finally lift your eyes to hers.
She doesn't speak right away. Just holds your gaze. Then – gently, a single nod.
Then she exhales, and it sounds older than it should.
"You know, I thought it would feel good. Yelling at Alex. Seeing her like that. Dying."
Aurore leans back slightly in her chair, arms folded across her chest – not closed off, just trying to hold herself together.
"I hit her. I screamed in her face. Called her every name I could think of."
She looks down, hands curled into loose fists in her lap.
"And the whole time, she could barely breathe."
Her voice doesn't crack, but there's a hollowness to it now. A vacuum where rage used to be.
"I thought it'd feel like justice. Like I'd reclaim something."
She meets your eyes again; there's no guard left.
"But it didn't feel like anything. Just… sad. Pathetic. Like yelling at the end of a tragedy everyone already knows the ending to."
She looks down at the table.
"I thought being angry would help. That if I hated her enough, the grief would burn off."
She lifts one shoulder in a barely–there shrug.
"It didn't."
The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's just honest.
Aurore leans forward a little, elbows on the table now, hands laced loosely in front of her. The light from the cracked window plays off her knuckles, the swelling in her face beginning to turn a dull yellow.
She exhales through her nose, then shakes her head slowly, as if she's been trying to hold something in – something less poetic than grief.
"Still," she says, voice quieter now, "I'd like to ruin them."
You glance up.
Her smile is faint, crooked – more tired than sharp – but it's there.
"The FIA. Every piece of that machine. Reed, Myers. Whatever protocols called for Aymeric's death. Panam's."
Her eyes glint slightly, catching a sliver of neon.
"Burn their intel. Crash their blacksites. Leak their secrets. Pull them apart until there's nothing left."
Then she lets out a soft, dry laugh.
"Maybe the answer is more revenge."
She looks at you, smile edging just a little wider.
"What do you think, V? One more body at the bonfire?"
You raise an eyebrow. She meets it with a look that's half–joke, half–dare.
For the first time, she doesn't feel like someone who was pulled along in the wreckage of your story.
She feels like someone walking beside you, by choice.
A friend.
Not just an ally.
Not just collateral.
She's with you now.
And she wants a reckoning.
You smile – slow, genuine.
It's faint, lopsided, but real in a way that feels unfamiliar after everything.
"If I live through the next few weeks," you say, "I'll help you take them apart, piece by piece."
Aurore watches you a beat longer, then nods once – firm, like the start of a pact.
"Good."
Then, smirking faintly: "I'll try to save a few pieces for you."
She stands slowly, one hand bracing on the table's edge, the other instinctively touching her ribs. She lets out a quiet breath, exhaustion settling into her shoulders.
"I'm gonna grab some sleep," she says, voice softening. "Feels like my bones are about to fall apart."
She looks toward the hallway, then back to you, an eyebrow lifted slightly.
"Hope you weren't too attached to that mattress."
You chuckle under your breath.
"Not even a little."
She nods, a small smile still playing at the edge of her face, and then she turns and walks toward the back room – the only space in the apartment with something resembling a bed.
Her footsteps are light. Unever, slower than usual.
You watch her disappear through the doorway.
The hours stretch long and slow.
You sit on the ruined couch, elbows on knees, watching moonlight inch its way across the wall. Dust hangs in the air like fog that forgot how to settle.
From the other room, Aurore's breathing drifts softly – steady, deep, the sleep of exhaustion.
You're tired too, your body craving rest.
But your mind won't allow it.
Pain, loss, the sheer weight of everything churns beneath your skin like an itch you can't scratch.
Then–
"Holy shit, V."
Her voice cuts through clearly, urgently, in your head.
You flinch, eyes snapping up.
And there she is.
Songbird flickers into view across the room – magenta hair frayed, eyes wide, face pale. Not poised or controlled this time – just raw and unsettled.
"So Mi. You alright?" you murmur aloud, or maybe just think it. The line blurs.
"No – are you alright?" she snaps back, emotion bleeding through – concern, guilt, fear. "Your vitals are fucked, neural load spiked twice today alone. You should be in a coma."
Your shoulder pulses like a lit fuse, but the pain feels distant now, dulled by her voice.
"We had a plan," you start, voice rough. "A crate drop into Dogtown – me, Aurore, and..." You pause, chest tightening. "Panam."
Songbird's expression falters slightly, sensing the weight behind your hesitation.
"But Panam was never there," you continue, voice tight. "Alex took her – place, from the start. Whole drop was a setup. A trap."
Songbird freezes, visibly processing that. Her form flickers briefly, resolution glitching like static interference.
"Alex… shit," she breathes. "I didn't–" She shakes her head. "God, V, I'm sorry. I should've seen something, tapped Reed, caught a trace– "
"It's not on you," you interrupt softly, voice flat, resigned. "Alex knew exactly what she was doing. Knew we'd buy it."
Songbird goes quiet, eyes locked onto you, absorbing the bruises, the fatigue, the grim set of your jaw.
"Everything went to shit," you finish quietly. "But somehow, we're here. In Dogtown."
She steps forward slightly, as if proximity might help bridge the gap.
"I've been MIA, I know. My system's not running right – I wasn't doing great. Thought I had it under control, but..."
She trails off, frustration evident.
Her eyes linger, carefully assessing you, scanning more than just physical wounds. Her voice softens.
"You're still here." Like she wasn't sure you would be.
She pauses again, voice quieter. "Guess you'll do anything to reach the matrix."
You straighten slightly, shoulder protesting. "Not just the matrix."
She tilts her head, wary, confused.
"I've gotta get you out too," you say firmly. "You said you could fix this – both of us. That was the deal."
She stares quietly, like you've said something she didn't expect. A shift, subtle yet significant. Like she expected you to see her as a tool – a stepping stone to your own survival – but not to mean it.
Her voice is quiet, careful.
"Most people wouldn't come this far for someone else."
You shrug tiredly. "Guess I'm not most people."
She gives a faint, weary smile. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.
You lean forward again, holding her gaze. "Alex asked about you, directly. Wanted to know if you'd turned against NUSA. Tried selling me on you being dangerous, a liar. Told her no, but–"
Songbird stiffens slightly, tension rippling across her projection.
"So they know," she finishes softly. "They know I'm against them."
"Seems like it," you confirm.
Her eyes flick toward the back room, where Aurore sleeps. "And her?"
"Alive. Rough, but standing." You pause. "She'll help."
Songbird exhales slowly, shoulders easing slightly – another variable accounted for.
She steps away, pacing briefly, her hair glitching in agitated bursts.
"Okay," she breathes. "Here's what I know."
She meets your eyes directly.
"I'm in Hansen's tower – same place as the matrix. It's deep underground, heavily secured. Getting in will be a bitch."
You nod slowly. "And Hansen?"
"He knows Aymeric's dead," Songbird replies quietly. "Barghest found the body. Tried extracting the matrix codes, but…" She gives a faint, tired smile. "Aymeric wiped them – secure protocol, failsafes activated before he died."
Your stomach knots. "Then Hansen still needs Aurore."
Songbird nods grimly. "Or what's still inside her head."
You glance back at the bedroom door. Songbird follows your gaze.
Then you nod toward the far window, toward Dogtown's jagged skyline looming against the night. Hansen's tower stands out – a gleaming monolith, unmistakable even through the grime.
"So," you say, cracking your knuckles gently, "getting in."
Songbird shifts slightly. "There's always a supply run."
You wince. "No more crates."
She smiles faintly. "Didn't think so. You're not exactly built for sitting still."
"Neither are you."
Her gaze drifts to the tower, eyes softening as if she could see straight through it.
"No," she whispers. "Not even a little."
There's a pause.
"What about a VIP visit?" she offers, carefully. "Aurore could be our in. Make it look like she's coming in to honour the deal. From Barghest's point of view, she's just been missing – not a threat."
You nod slowly, considering. "Could work. Credible reason, minimal suspicion." You lean back slightly, grimacing. "But after everything… I don't want to put her in that position."
She nods gently. "Alright, we table it." A beat passes quietly. "Then there's door number three."
You raise a brow.
"Stealth," she says, smiling faintly. "Pure ghost ops."
"Ninja shit."
"Exactly."
You nod again, fingers brushing bruised ribs. "Three netrunners might pull it off."
Her smile fades a bit, growing quieter. You watch her carefully, something tight building behind your ribs.
"It's a lot," you admit. "I'll need to talk to Aurore. See where her head's at."
So Mi nods.
"Of course."
She steps back just a bit, eyes still fixed out toward Hansen's tower. The light catches her face, giving it a strange, beautiful translucence.
Then she says, just barely above a whisper:
"I've been having dreams."
You look at her.
She doesn't elaborate.
Doesn't look at you.
Just keeps staring at the tower in the distance, the weight of her silence as heavy as the city itself.
"Dreams?" you echo, leaning forward slightly.
So Mi doesn't answer right away. Her gaze is still fixed on the tower, as if her thoughts are spiralling up through its broken glass and silent floors.
Then, she shrugs. "Nightmares, mostly."
She tries to sound casual, but it's thin.
"Tower's quiet, but not the kind of quiet you rest in."
You frown. "They treating you okay?"
She turns to you, expression unreadable for a second.
"I'm a... 'guest.'"
The way she says it – that slight twist in her voice, the careful pause – tells you more than she probably means to.
"They watch me. Every room has eyes. Every node, monitored. I can walk most of the tower, but I can't really leave. It's not said outright, but it's made clear enough."
A pause.
"They're polite, though. Very professional."
You grimace. "Sounds like prison with a catering budget."
"Basically."
A pause settles between you, thick as fog.
You think of Aurore's words. The doubt in her voice.
And the costs already paid.
You shift forward slightly in your chair.
"Song..." your voice is soft, careful, like you're walking across glass. "Are you really going to fix this? Fix me?"
She looks at you.
And for the first time in the conversation, her posture falters.
Just a flicker – shoulders drop half an inch, her hands curl tighter against the table's edge.
You keep going.
"I'm not trying to corner you. I just..."
You shake your head slowly, looking down at the table between you.
"I've dragged so many people into this. Lost too many. If this is just one more dead end..."
You can't quite finish it.
So Mi's eyes linger on yours, softening briefly before they harden again. Her hand rises slowly, cautiously, reaching across the cracked tabletop as if drawn by something beyond her control.
Her fingertips pass through your skin – a ghost touch, hollow and intangible. A faint glitch flickers through her projection, and her eyes cloud with quiet pain. Not just frustration at the limits of her projection, but something deeper. You catch it – a sadness she's hiding behind that careful half–smile.
"Sorry," she murmurs softly, quickly drawing her hand back, fingers curling as if to hide the attempted touch.
You watch her carefully, feeling something thick and uncertain twist behind your ribs. She doesn't meet your eyes again right away, and for a brief, uncomfortable moment, the silence between you is filled with everything she isn't saying.
Her lips press together, her eyes tighten.
You search her face.
The small twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The softness in her brown eyes.
The tension in her jaw, the way her hand doesn't fully fall away after the gesture fails.
A weight behind her words that hasn't yet reached her lips.
"I'm not lying to you, V," she says finally, quietly.
"The matrix can fix you."
You hold her gaze.
And as the silence returns, you can't help but trace the shape of her in your mind.
The curve of her full lips,
The slight downward tilt of her eyes,
The smooth column of her neck, pale and still beneath the static of her projection.
You both sit there a moment longer, eyes exploring one another. The air is still, save for the distant, rhythmical beat of the city far below.
"You should get some sleep," Songbird says softly.
There's no command in her voice. No push.
Just concern, quiet and worn at the edges.
You expect her to fade – dissolve into the shimmer of data like she always does. But she doesn't.
Instead, she walks to the far wall, and settles down – back against the cracked concrete, legs drawn loosely in.
You blink.
"Not logging off?"
She shrugs, glancing toward you, her face more relaxed now, the burden momentarily lighter.
"Just... staying a bit."
You glance down the hallway toward the bedroom.
"Only bed's got Aurore in it."
"Lucky her," So Mi says with a faint smile.
You move carefully – shoulder protesting – and slide down against the opposite wall, settling a few feet from her. Breathing steady, body aching.
She watches quietly, then looks at her own hands. "Wish I could offer more than pixels," she says softly, motioning gently to her lap.
You glance down – at empty space that might've been warmth, weight, comfort.
You smile faintly. "Pixels aren't so bad."
Her head tilts just slightly.
"Don't trust pixels too much," she says quietly. Barely audible, yet it lingers.
You don't answer. Just close your eyes.
Even knowing she isn't truly there – her presence, the shape of her beside you, brings a sense of company. Security.
The city's hum quiets around you.
Her voice is the last sound you hear before sleep finally claims you.
