The first mistake was saying it out loud. Ace did it, naturally. She stood in the middle of the safehouse kitchen with one sock on, one sock missing, her hair still damp from the shower and sticking up in uneven black-violet blades, and declared with the solemnity of someone making a legally binding contract with a malicious universe: “Tonight, we do nothing.” Mai looked up from the counter. Shammy, who had been leaning against the window with a mug of coffee that was mostly milk and an amount of sugar Mai had described as “chemical escalation,” turned her head just slightly. Outside, Night City made its usual noises. Sirens in the distance. Rain ticking against reinforced glass. A drone passing too close to the building and correcting course with an offended little buzz. Somewhere below, somebody shouted something about stolen tires, corporate parasites, and a dog that may or may not have existed. Mai blinked once. “Ace.” “What?” “You said it.” “Said what?” “You declared normality.” Ace narrowed her violet eyes. “That’s allowed.” “No,” Mai said. “It is legally, spiritually, and narratively reckless.” Shammy took a slow sip from her mug. Static lifted three strands of her silver-white hair, then gave up halfway, as if even the electricity was tired. “I agree with Mai.” “You always agree with Mai when she sounds reasonable.” “She often sounds reasonable.” “She often sounds armed.” Mai pointed at her with a chopstick. Ace pointed back with the one sock in her hand. “Tonight,” Ace repeated, more carefully, “we are not accepting work from Rogue. We are not answering weird messages. We are not touching suspicious items. We are not investigating noises, symbols, bodies, glitches, whispers, shrines, murals, cult flyers, vending machines, dolls, abandoned elevators, or anything that says ‘prototype’ on it.” Shammy raised one finger. Ace sighed. “Or anything that says ‘limited edition.’” Shammy lowered the finger. Mai folded her arms. “You forgot children singing in places where there are no children.” “I did not forget. That was included under whispers.” “No, structurally distinct.” “Fine. No children singing.” “Radios playing dead stations?” “No radios.” “Mirrors?” Ace stared at her. Mai stared back. Ace’s mouth tightened. “No mirrors behaving suspiciously.” Shammy tilted her head. “What counts as suspicious for a mirror?” “If it reflects more people than are in the room,” Mai said. “If it reflects fewer?” Shammy asked. “Also suspicious.” “If it reflects accurately but with disappointment?” Ace and Mai both looked at her. Shammy sipped her coffee. “What? That has happened.” Ace rubbed both hands down her face. “Normal evening. Food. Drinks. Maybe a movie. Maybe a walk. We are three adults in Night City and we are capable of spending one evening without the universe trying to invoice us for existing.” There was a pause. A very small one. The kind of pause rooms made when they had opinions. Then the microwave beeped. Nobody had used it. Ace turned her head slowly. Mai looked at the microwave. Shammy looked at the microwave. The microwave beeped again. Ace’s eyes narrowed further. “No.” Mai’s expression went perfectly still. Shammy set her mug down. Ace marched to the microwave, stabbed the cancel button, opened the door, and found nothing inside except the little rotating plate. She stared into the empty microwave. The microwave stared back in the limited way available to household appliances. Ace closed it. “There,” she said. “Done.” Mai said nothing. Shammy said nothing. The microwave beeped. Ace slapped both hands flat against the counter. “No.” --- They decided to leave the safehouse. This was Mai’s suggestion, and it was objectively logical. If the apartment had begun exhibiting behavior, even minor behavior, then staying inside would create a feedback loop of suspicion. Normal evening required neutral territory. Ace argued that retreating from a microwave was humiliating. Mai argued that it was not retreat, it was operational relocation. Shammy suggested taking the microwave with them to establish dominance. Mai vetoed that. Ace considered it for six full seconds before also vetoing it, but with visible regret. So they dressed. Ace in dark streetwear layered under her jacket, compact and restless, every movement reading like a blade trying to remember it was currently a person. Mai in sleek black and silver, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail that still somehow looked intentional, her face calm in the way that meant she was already building three contingency maps. Shammy in a long coat that did very little to hide the fact that she was nearly two meters tall and carried weather around her like a second shadow. They stepped into the corridor. The corridor lights flickered once. Ace raised a finger without turning around. “No.” The lights stabilized. Mai glanced at the ceiling. “Probably just the building grid.” “Probably,” Ace said. The elevator arrived before they pressed the button. The doors opened. Inside stood a man in a lime-green suit, holding a bouquet of plastic flowers and crying silently. Everyone froze. The man looked at them. They looked at the man. The elevator music played something that had once been jazz but had since made several poor life choices. The man sniffed. “Wrong floor.” He stepped out, walked past them, and disappeared down the corridor. The elevator doors remained open. Ace watched the empty hallway where he had gone. Mai watched the elevator panel. Shammy watched the air. After several seconds, Ace said, “No.” Mai nodded. “Agreed.” They took the stairs. The stairwell smelled of dust, wet concrete, cheap incense, and someone’s overconfident attempt at lemon disinfectant. It should have been quiet, but Night City buildings were never truly quiet. Pipes complained. Wires hummed behind old panels. Someone two floors down was arguing in Spanish with a vending machine. Ace relaxed by approximately two percent. Stairs were honest. Stairs did not pretend to think. They reached the fifth landing. A vending machine stood there. It had not been there yesterday. It was wedged awkwardly beside the fire door, humming to itself. Its display read: **WELCOME VALUED CUSTOMER. PLEASE SELECT EMOTIONAL SUPPORT SNACK.** Ace stared at it. Mai exhaled through her nose. Shammy leaned forward with interest. “No,” Ace said again. Mai touched the machine’s side. “It is plugged in.” “There is no outlet.” Mai followed the cord. The cord ran behind the machine, into the wall, through a crack that looked old enough to vote. “There is,” Mai corrected herself, “not supposed to be an outlet.” Ace took one careful step backward. “We are not doing this.” Shammy was reading the snack options. “Don’t.” “They have thunder plum crisps.” “Don’t.” “And something called Regret Nougat.” “Absolutely don’t.” Mai bent slightly, peering at the payment slot. “It accepts eddies, cards, and apparently—” “Don’t say souls.” “—tenant complaint forms.” Ace paused. Mai looked at her. Ace looked at the machine. From two floors below, the vending machine argument continued. A voice shouted, “I paid for spicy shrimp chips, you chrome-plated bastard!” The machine in front of them dispensed something with a thunk. All three flinched. A small packet slid into the tray. Ace did not move. Mai did not move. Shammy did. “Shammy.” She picked up the packet. The label read: **NORMAL EVENING MIX** **MILD FLAVOR** **CONTAINS: PEANUTS, SOY, DENIAL** Shammy smiled. Ace closed her eyes. Mai whispered, “We are going outside.” --- Night City received them with rain. Not dramatic rain. Not cinematic rain. Not the kind that washed neon into blood and sapphire across the pavement in a way photographers would later claim was symbolic. Just annoying rain. Thin, cold, stubborn. The kind that found seams in collars and made the sidewalk smell like old metal and fried oil. Ace liked it immediately. “See?” she said, lifting her face. “Normal.” A passing car hit a puddle and sprayed her from shoulder to knee. Ace stood very still. The car continued down the street, its rear bumper held on by orange tape and hope. Mai pressed her lips together. Shammy made a small sound that might have been sympathy or might have been failing to suppress laughter. Ace looked down at herself. Then at the car. Then at Mai. “No.” Mai nodded gravely. “Correct response.” “I am not chasing a car because of a puddle.” “Growth.” “I could.” “Yes.” “I won’t.” “Excellent.” Shammy offered Ace a napkin from somewhere inside her coat. It was folded into a triangle. Ace took it. The napkin had a printed logo from a restaurant none of them had visited. Ace looked at it. Shammy looked at it too. “I have no explanation.” Mai leaned in. The logo showed a smiling moon wearing sunglasses and eating noodles. Under it, in cheerful block letters: **MOON NOODLE — WE APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE** Ace handed the napkin back. “No.” Shammy tucked it away with obvious intent. “Do not collect evidence,” Mai said. “It is a napkin.” “That is how evidence starts.” They walked. The plan, as much as normal evenings required plans, was simple. Food first. Real food, not emergency protein bars, not questionable vending machine offerings, not something Badger had once described as “technically edible if you redefine the enemy.” Then maybe a drink somewhere loud enough to be anonymous. Then home. Movie optional. Investigation forbidden. They chose a restaurant because it looked ordinary. This was their second mistake. The place sat between a ripperdoc clinic and a pawn shop that advertised **WE BUY MEMORIES** in flickering pink letters. The restaurant had steamed-up windows, scratched plastic menus, and a tired sign reading: **LUCKY NINE BOWL HOUSE** Below that, someone had added in marker: **YES WE ARE OPEN. NO WE DO NOT KNOW WHY.** Mai studied the sign. Ace studied Mai. “No analysis.” “I was not analyzing.” “You made the eye.” “There is no eye.” “The structural eye.” Shammy had already opened the door. Inside, the restaurant smelled wonderful. That was the problem. It smelled like actual broth, garlic, ginger, grilled scallion, chili oil, fried dumplings, warm rice, and some faint smoky undertone that made Ace’s stomach betray her principles immediately. There were six tables. Four occupied. One server. One cook visible through a pass window. A television mounted in the corner played a cooking competition with subtitles out of sync. Nothing glowed. Nothing whispered. No one had empty eyes. No symbols carved into tabletops. No ritual geometry hidden in condiment placement. Just a small restaurant on a wet street in Night City. Ace relaxed by another two percent. The server approached with three menus and a haunted expression. “Table for three?” “Yes,” Mai said. The server looked at Shammy. Then at Ace. Then at Mai. Then back at Shammy. “Three,” she said again, like she was confirming a number that had personally wronged her. “Yes.” The server nodded. “Booth or table?” “Booth,” Ace said. “Table,” Mai said at the same time. “Ceiling,” Shammy said softly. Both of them turned. Shammy pointed up. A single dumpling was stuck to the ceiling. It was not fresh. It was not old. It occupied a disturbing middle state of dumpling existence. Mai stared at it. Ace looked at the server. The server sighed. “That’s Kevin.” Ace blinked. “The dumpling?” “Management said if it stays up there a full month, we get a bonus.” Mai’s face went carefully neutral. Ace opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “No.” The server nodded with deep professional understanding. “Booth?” “Booth,” Mai said. They were seated under Kevin. This was not ideal. Ace sat with her back to the wall. Mai sat opposite. Shammy folded herself into the booth with the slow grace of someone negotiating with furniture designed by cowards. The menus were sticky. Normal sticky. Restaurant sticky. Not blood sticky. Not ectoplasm sticky. Not “the last person who touched this became part of the laminate” sticky. Ace appreciated the distinction. Mai scanned the menu. Shammy scanned the ceiling dumpling. Ace scanned the room. A man in a yellow jacket was eating noodles while watching the cooking show with total concentration. A woman with one chrome arm was asleep at her table, forehead resting beside a bowl of untouched rice. Two teenagers were quietly trying to build a tower out of sauce packets. Normal. Mostly. The server returned. “Drinks?” “Water,” Mai said. “Tea,” Shammy said. “Something cold,” Ace said. “No alcohol.” The server wrote nothing down. “So three coffees.” “No,” Ace said. The server nodded. “One coffee.” “No.” “Three coffees, one no coffee.” Mai placed both hands on the table. “Water. Tea. Cold non-alcoholic drink.” The server stared at her. Mai stared back. The server’s expression cleared. “Ah. You mean the evening set.” Ace’s eyes narrowed. “We do not.” The server vanished. Ace leaned back. “We should leave.” Mai looked toward the kitchen. “The food smells good.” “That is how places get you.” “It is a restaurant.” “Exactly.” Shammy smiled at Kevin. “Stop bonding with the ceiling dumpling.” “I respect commitment.” Before Ace could reply, the drinks arrived. One water. One tea. One glass filled with something bright blue and smoking gently. Ace looked at it. The server set it in front of her. “No.” “It’s non-alcoholic.” “It’s smoking.” “Dry ice.” “Why?” “Presentation.” The blue drink emitted a bubble that drifted upward, touched the bottom of Kevin the ceiling dumpling, and popped. Kevin did not fall. Shammy’s eyes brightened. Mai said, very quietly, “We are still within plausible parameters.” Ace turned her head slowly. “That sentence should never be necessary at dinner.” --- The food was good. That made everything worse. Ace’s bowl arrived exactly as ordered: spicy beef noodles, extra green onion, no mushroom. Mai’s dish came with the requested substitutions and the sauce on the side. Shammy received a massive bowl of something called “Storm Fisherman Soup,” which the menu claimed was “popular with electricians and divorced poets.” For ten minutes, the evening almost worked. Rain scratched the windows. Steam rose from the bowls. The television shouted delayed praise at a contestant who had apparently committed a crime against pastry. The teenagers’ sauce packet tower collapsed in silence, and both of them mourned it with dignity. Ace ate. Mai ate. Shammy ate and looked faintly pleased in the way she did when weather and soup reached a private agreement. For ten minutes, there was peace. Then Ace’s chopsticks broke. Not snapped. Broke. They separated into seven equal pieces. Ace looked down. Mai stopped mid-bite. Shammy blinked. Ace picked up one piece. Another piece rolled off the table. Mai caught it before it hit the floor. Ace held up the remains of the chopsticks. “How.” Mai examined the piece. “Cheap wood. Bad grain. Internal stress.” “Seven pieces.” “Unusual, not impossible.” “Mai.” “I am trying very hard to keep the evening normal.” Ace looked at Shammy. Shammy, very gently, offered her own chopsticks. Ace took them. They folded in half. Not broke. Folded. Like soft plastic. Ace stared. Mai whispered, “No.” The server appeared. “Need forks?” Ace said, “Yes.” The server brought three spoons. Ace looked at Mai. Mai rubbed her forehead. Shammy tried eating noodles with the spoon. It did not work well, but she committed. Across the room, the man in the yellow jacket stood suddenly and shouted at the television: “You can’t flambé grief!” Everyone froze. On the screen, a contestant was indeed flambéing something while crying. The cook in the kitchen shouted back, “Let him cook!” The man in the yellow jacket sat down again. The restaurant resumed breathing. Ace, holding a spoon like a weapon, said, “Normal city.” Mai nodded. “Normal city.” Shammy added, “Normal grief flambé.” Mai’s shoulders shook once. Ace pointed the spoon at her. “Don’t.” Mai looked away. Ace pointed at Shammy. “You either.” Shammy’s lips pressed together. The ceiling dumpling dropped. Not onto the floor. Not onto the table. It fell directly into Ace’s blue smoking drink. Plop. Everyone in the restaurant turned. The server gasped. The teenagers stood. The cook appeared in the pass window. For one suspended moment, the entire restaurant observed the fallen dumpling. Then the server whispered, “Kevin.” Ace stared at the drink. The blue smoke curled around the dumpling. Something inside the glass fizzed. Mai placed money on the table. “We are leaving.” Ace stood immediately. Shammy looked genuinely sad. “But the soup—” “Bring it.” The server rushed over with a plastic lid, still visibly processing grief. “Was he close to the bonus?” Shammy asked softly. The server nodded. “Twenty-seven days.” Shammy placed a generous tip on the table. “For Kevin.” Ace dragged both of them out before the restaurant could hold a memorial. --- Outside, the rain had stopped. The street steamed. Night City glittered in puddles, neon reflecting in broken fragments, like the ground had swallowed the skyline badly and could not digest it. Ace breathed in. “Okay,” she said. “Food happened.” Mai carried the leftovers. Shammy carried the soup with both hands, reverent. Ace walked ahead, still damp from the puddle incident, now smelling faintly of chili oil and blue beverage smoke. “Next,” Mai said, “we choose something extremely simple.” “Bench,” Ace said. “A bench?” “We sit on a bench.” “That is not an evening.” “It is normal.” “People get murdered on benches.” “People get murdered in restaurants.” “Kevin did not murder anyone.” “Kevin had intent.” Shammy looked back toward Lucky Nine Bowl House. “He was doing his best.” Ace jabbed a finger at the street ahead. “Bench.” They found one two blocks later under a half-dead ad board. The ad board flickered between three messages: **ARASAKA SECURITY: PEACE THROUGH PRECISION** **TRY NEW SYNTH-BACON ZERO — NOW WITH 8% MORE MEMORY** **HAVE YOU CONSIDERED CRYING LESS?** The bench was wet. Ace stared at it. Mai took a small packet of tissues from her coat and wiped one end. Ace sat. Mai sat beside her. Shammy attempted to sit, discovered the bench had not been engineered with storm goddesses in mind, and settled with one leg extended awkwardly, knees higher than seemed dignified. For a moment, they simply watched the street. A delivery drone passed overhead, tilted, recovered, and dropped a single plastic fork onto the pavement in front of Ace. Ace looked at the fork. The fork looked up in the limited way available to disposable cutlery. Mai inhaled. Ace said, “Do not.” “I said nothing.” “You inhaled structurally.” Shammy leaned forward and picked up the fork. Ace and Mai both said, “No.” Shammy held it carefully between two fingers. “It may be useful.” “No collecting.” “It is a fork.” “That is how evidence starts,” Mai said. Shammy looked genuinely betrayed. “I am being profiled.” The ad board flickered. **HAVE YOU CONSIDERED CRYING LESS?** Ace threw a tissue at it. The tissue stuck to the screen. The ad board went dark. Mai looked at Ace. Ace looked smug. A second later, the ad board rebooted and displayed: **THANK YOU FOR YOUR FEEDBACK.** Mai stood. “Walk.” “Bench failed?” Ace asked. “Bench failed.” Shammy kept the fork. --- They tried the riverwalk next. Calling it a riverwalk was generous. It was a strip of cracked pavement overlooking water that glowed faintly in ways water should not glow, bordered by railings with old bullet scars and newer advertisements. Still, there were people walking. Couples. Drunk mercs. A man selling grilled skewers from a cart powered by what looked like a modified motorcycle battery. Two kids chasing each other with glow sticks. Normal. The city had a talent for pretending normal was still available if one agreed not to look too closely. Ace slowed. This was better. Open air. No ceiling dumplings. No elevators. No emotionally targeted vending machines. No appliances with opinions. Mai walked beside her, posture finally easing. Shammy trailed half a step behind, soup container tucked under one arm, disposable fork in the other hand like a tiny ceremonial spear. Ace glanced at her. “You look ridiculous.” “I know.” “Good.” They passed the skewer cart. The vendor, an old woman with red cyber-eyes and a cigarette tucked behind one ear, pointed at Ace. “You. Small angry one. Eat.” Ace stopped. Mai kept walking for one step, then stopped too. Shammy looked delighted. Ace turned slowly. “What?” The vendor held up a skewer. “You are damp and furious. This is bad for digestion.” “I already ate.” “You ate noodles. This is not enough for your temperament.” Mai’s mouth twitched. Ace saw it. “Mai.” “I said nothing.” “You are thinking loudly.” The vendor leaned forward. “Tall one gets free skewer. Weather likes her.” Shammy accepted immediately. “Thank you.” Ace stared at her. “Traitor.” Shammy took a bite. Her eyes widened. Ace’s expression shifted despite herself. “Good?” Shammy nodded. Ace looked at the vendor. The vendor held out another skewer. Ace took it with suspicion. It was excellent. This, naturally, created a problem. Because the night now had proof it could behave. Ace finished the skewer. Mai bought one too, after pretending not to want one for exactly twelve seconds. They stood near the railing eating in relative quiet. And for the second time that evening, everything almost worked. Then a man ran past them carrying a full-size office chair over his head. Three seconds later, another man ran after him shouting, “That’s ergonomic, you bastard!” Ace watched them go. Mai closed her eyes. Shammy chewed thoughtfully. Ace said, “Not our problem.” Mai nodded. “Not our chair.” “Not our ergonomics.” “Correct.” A third man jogged past, slower than the first two, holding a clipboard. “Have any of you seen a chair thief?” “No,” Ace said instantly. The man stopped. “You didn’t even think about it.” “I don’t know chairs.” “It was black. Mesh back. Lumbar support.” Mai made a small sound. Ace turned sharply. “Do not help him.” “I know the model.” “Of course you do.” “It had poor lateral stability.” The clipboard man pointed at Mai. “Yes! Exactly!” Ace stepped between them. “We are not joining a chair investigation.” The old vendor coughed. “He went toward Kabuki.” The clipboard man ran off. Ace turned to the vendor. The vendor shrugged. “Chair had bad energy.” Shammy nodded as if this made perfect sense. Mai muttered, “Poor lateral stability does create workplace risk.” Ace stared at the glowing river. “Normal evening,” she said. The river burped. A single bubble rose to the surface and popped with a sound very much like a tiny laugh. Ace pointed at the water without looking at Mai. “No analysis.” “I agree.” “No comment.” “I agree.” “No river theories.” “I agree.” Shammy leaned over the railing. “Do not talk to the river.” “I was not going to.” “You were considering it.” “I was listening.” “That is worse.” Shammy straightened, offended but not enough to deny it. They moved on. --- The next attempt was a bar. Mai chose it because it had average reviews, no known gang ownership, no obvious netrunner clientele, and only two reported murders in the last six months, both interpersonal and therefore statistically uninteresting. Ace objected to the phrase “statistically uninteresting murders.” Mai refused to retract it. The bar was called **The Low Battery**. The sign outside flickered at exactly the pace of a dying thought. Inside, it was crowded but not packed. Music thumped low through the floor. The walls were covered in mismatched screens showing sports, ads, old movies, newsfeeds, and one aquarium channel where digital fish swam with dead-eyed determination. Nobody looked at them for more than a second. That was nice. Shammy had to duck under a hanging lamp. That was expected. Ace found a corner table. Mai ordered drinks. Shammy sat beside Ace and placed the soup container on the table like a shrine. Ace looked at it. “You still have that?” “It is good soup.” “It has been through a lot.” “So have we.” Mai returned with three drinks. Water for herself. Something citrus for Ace. Something warm and spiced for Shammy. No smoke. No blue. No dumpling. Ace lifted her glass. “To normal.” Mai hesitated. Shammy hesitated. Ace glared at both of them. They clinked glasses. Nothing happened. Ace drank. Nothing happened. The music continued. People laughed. Someone shouted at a screen. A waitress dropped a tray and swore so creatively that Shammy looked impressed. For nearly fifteen minutes, the evening became almost dangerously successful. Ace leaned back. Mai’s shoulders softened. Shammy warmed her hands around her drink and watched the digital fish. Ace said, “See?” Mai did not answer immediately. Ace looked at her. Mai was staring at the table. “What?” Mai lifted one coaster. Under it was another coaster. She lifted that one. Another. Ace’s expression went flat. Mai lifted six more. Coasters. All the way down. Shammy leaned in. Ace said, “Stop.” Mai kept lifting. Twelve. Seventeen. Twenty-three. The stack was now tall enough to be visible from across the table. Ace put her hand on Mai’s wrist. “Do not continue.” “I need to know.” “No, you don’t.” “I very much do.” “That is exactly why you should stop.” Mai stared at the remaining stack. Shammy whispered, “Maybe it is load-bearing.” Mai froze. Ace pointed at Shammy. “Why would you say that?” “It felt true.” A man from the next table leaned over. “Don’t pull the bottom one.” All three turned. The man had a shaved head, neon tattoos, and the solemn expression of someone who had learned his lesson in public. Ace spoke slowly. “What happens if we pull the bottom one?” The man took a drink. “Happy hour starts over.” Mai’s eyes narrowed. Ace stood. “We are leaving.” “No, wait,” Mai said. “That is not physically—” “Leaving.” “But—” “Mai.” Mai looked at the stack. Looked at Ace. Looked at the stack again. “Fine.” Shammy picked up the soup. The man at the next table nodded respectfully. “Wise.” As they moved toward the exit, someone at the bar shouted, “Who ordered thirty-two waters?” The bartender shouted back, “Table six!” Ace stopped. Mai stopped. Shammy stopped. They looked back. Their table was table six. Thirty-two glasses of water were being placed there by two increasingly angry servers. Ace turned around and walked faster. Outside, the rain had started again. --- “This is not normal,” Mai said. They stood under an awning beside a closed braindance parlor. The sign above them displayed a looping ad for **AUTHENTIC CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE — NOW WITH OPTIONAL TRAUMA FILTERS**. Ace wrung rainwater from the edge of her jacket. “No enemies. No symbols. No pattern.” “That does not make it normal.” “It makes it irritating.” Mai paced three short steps, turned, paced back. Shammy drank soup from the container. Ace watched her. “Are you using the fork?” “Yes.” “That fork came from the sky.” “It works.” Mai stopped pacing. “That is exactly the problem.” “The fork?” “No. Everything. Each individual event has a plausible explanation. Bad wiring. Coincidence. Human error. Poor service. Cheap chopsticks. Restaurant superstition. Misdelivered drone item. Urban weirdness. But the aggregate timing—” Ace groaned. “There it is.” Mai pointed at her. “Do not mock aggregate timing.” “I am soaked, fed, mildly traumatized by Kevin, and apparently being stalked by customer service infrastructure. I will mock whatever I want.” Shammy lifted her fork. “I think the evening is trying too hard.” Mai and Ace both looked at her. Shammy shrugged. “Not like an enemy. More like… someone who has read about normal evenings and is improvising.” The rain pattered. A drunk man across the street attempted to unlock a parked motorcycle with what appeared to be a banana. Ace said, “No.” Mai said, “That is actually not implausible for Night City.” The banana snapped. The motorcycle alarm began playing opera. Ace closed her eyes. Shammy smiled faintly. Mai looked exhausted. “We go home,” Mai said. Ace pointed back the way they had come. “Safehouse has microwave.” “We unplug it.” “It may object.” “It is a microwave.” “It beeped with intent.” Mai opened her mouth. Closed it. “Fine,” she said. “We go somewhere else.” “Where?” Mai looked down the street. A holo-sign flickered to life above them. **MOON NOODLE — LATE NIGHT COMFORT FOOD** **WE APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE** All three looked at it. Ace slowly turned to Shammy. Shammy slowly reached into her coat and withdrew the napkin from earlier. The logo matched. Mai made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a structural collapse. Ace took the napkin. Looked at the sign. Looked at the napkin. Then very calmly tore the napkin into four pieces. A gust of wind lifted the pieces from her hand and carried them down the street in a neat little spiral. The Moon Noodle sign flickered. **RESERVATION CONFIRMED.** Ace’s right eye twitched. Shammy whispered, “Maybe they have dessert.” Ace started walking toward the sign. Mai caught her arm. “No.” “I just want to talk.” “You do not.” “I want to ask polite questions.” “You absolutely do not.” Shammy placed one hand on Ace’s shoulder. The air around them cooled slightly. Ace stopped. Breathed once. Twice. Then said, with terrible calm, “We are not going to Moon Noodle.” The sign flickered again. **CANCELLATION FEE MAY APPLY.** Ace smiled. Mai tightened her grip. “Ace.” “I’m fine.” “You are making the face.” “What face?” “The face you make right before drywall loses a debate.” Ace’s smile widened. Shammy leaned down slightly, voice soft. “Little blade. No.” The smile vanished. Ace exhaled. “Fine.” They walked in the opposite direction. Behind them, the sign dimmed. For half a block, nothing happened. Then Mai’s agent pinged. She stopped. Ace and Shammy stopped with her. Mai looked at the notification. Her expression went blank. Ace leaned in. “What?” Mai showed them the screen. **MOON NOODLE:** **Thank you for not dining with us. Please rate your absence.** Ace took one step backward. “No.” Shammy said, “Five stars for persistence.” Mai deleted the message. Another ping. **MOON NOODLE:** **We’re sorry your absence was unsatisfactory.** Mai turned off notifications. Another ping came from Ace’s agent. Ace stared. Then slowly lifted her wrist. **MOON NOODLE:** **Group dining works best when everyone participates.** Ace looked up at the sky. “Normal evening,” she said, voice small and dangerous. A delivery drone descended in front of them. It carried a paper bag. The bag had the moon logo. Mai said, “Do not touch it.” The drone hovered. Ace stared at the bag. Shammy stared at the drone. The drone’s speaker crackled. A cheerful voice said, “Moon Noodle apologizes for any inconvenience caused by your unwillingness to accept comfort.” Ace whispered, “Mai.” “Yes?” “How illegal is it to kill a drone?” “In Night City?” “Yes.” “Depends who owns it.” “Moon Noodle.” Mai paused. “That answer should not matter, but somehow it does.” The drone lowered the bag another inch. Shammy lifted one hand. The air thickened gently around the drone. Not attack pressure. Not weaponized. Just enough atmosphere to make hovering difficult. The drone wobbled. Its speaker crackled again. “Please do not intimidate the noodle.” Ace stared. Mai stared. Shammy stared. The drone dropped the bag and flew away sideways, bumping once into a streetlamp before correcting course. The bag landed at Ace’s feet. Nobody moved. Steam rose from it. It smelled incredible. Ace whispered, “No.” Mai said, “Absolutely no.” Shammy said nothing. Ace and Mai turned to her. Shammy’s expression was carefully innocent. “No,” Ace repeated. Shammy looked at the bag. Then at Ace. Then at Mai. “It would be wasteful.” Mai covered her face. --- They did not eat the noodles. This was a matter of principle. They carried the bag to the nearest public trash unit, which refused to open. Ace kicked it. The unit’s display lit up. **PLEASE SORT WASTE RESPONSIBLY.** Mai selected “food waste.” The unit opened. Ace threw the bag in. The unit closed. A receipt printed. Mai took it automatically, then regretted doing so. Ace looked at it. The receipt read: **MOON NOODLE RETURN PROCESSED** **REASON: EMOTIONAL UNREADINESS** Ace made a small strangled sound. Shammy gently removed the receipt from Mai’s hand and folded it into her coat pocket. Mai stared at her. “Evidence starts somewhere,” Shammy said. Ace laughed. Not much. Just once. But it broke something. Mai started laughing too, tired and helpless and furious at herself for it. Shammy smiled, then laughed in that quiet rolling way of hers, like thunder far enough away to be safe. Ace leaned against the trash unit and laughed harder. The unit displayed: **PLEASE DO NOT LEAN ON MUNICIPAL PROPERTY.** That made it worse. For a minute, they stood in the rain beside a judgmental trash can, laughing like people who had survived worse things and were currently being defeated by noodles. No one shot at them. No cult appeared. No object of power hummed in a gutter. No fixer called. No impossible figure watched from across the street. Just Night City. Wet, stupid, overlit, undermaintained, full of bad systems trying to sell comfort at knife-point. Eventually Mai wiped at one eye. “I hate this evening.” Ace nodded. “Same.” Shammy looked pleased. “But it is memorable.” “That is not a virtue.” “It can be.” Mai checked the time. “It has only been two hours.” Ace went very still. Shammy stopped smiling. Mai looked at the time again, as if the display might apologize. “It has been,” she repeated, “two hours and seven minutes.” Ace stared down the street. Neon reflected in her eyes. “We go home.” “Microwave,” Shammy reminded. “I will unplug it.” “Elevator?” “Stairs.” “Vending machine?” Ace’s mouth tightened. “We do not acknowledge it.” “Moon Noodle?” Mai turned all notifications off completely. “Dead to us.” Ace nodded once. “Home.” --- The walk back was quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference, and all three knew it. Night City had not stopped being itself. Cars hissed through puddles. People argued in doorways. A distant explosion bloomed orange behind a row of buildings, followed by no screams, which meant either nobody cared or everyone involved had expected it. A woman passed them walking three tiny robotic dogs, each wearing a tactical vest. A man in a wedding dress smoked under a bus shelter and recited stock prices to no one. A billboard above the street briefly glitched and showed Ace’s reflection instead of an advertisement. She stopped. The billboard corrected itself. Mai looked at her. Ace shook her head. “No.” Mai nodded. They kept walking. At the safehouse building, the front door refused to recognize Mai’s access token. Then Shammy’s. Then Ace’s. Ace tried again. The panel flashed red. **ACCESS DENIED: TOO NORMAL** Ace stared. Mai stared. Shammy leaned closer. The panel flashed green. **WELCOME BACK, RESIDENTS.** The door opened. Ace said, “I am going to kill architecture.” Mai said, “That would be expensive.” They entered. The lobby smelled like wet coats and artificial pine. The security bot in the corner had a traffic cone on its head. That was not unusual. The cone had been there for three days. Someone had drawn eyebrows on it. Ace pointed at the stairs. No one argued. The vending machine on the fifth landing was still there. It hummed softly. Its display read: **GOOD EVENING AGAIN.** Ace did not look at it. Mai did not look at it. Shammy looked at it. Ace hissed, “Shammy.” “I said nothing.” “You looked.” “It looked first.” They climbed faster. At their floor, the corridor was empty. The lime-green suit man was gone. No plastic flowers. No silent crying. Progress. Ace approached the safehouse door. Mai unlocked it. The door opened. The apartment was dark. Still. Waiting. Ace stepped in first, because of course she did. Mai followed. Shammy ducked slightly through the doorway and closed it behind them. Nothing attacked. Nothing beeped. The microwave sat in the kitchen, ordinary and smug. Ace walked over and unplugged it. The display went dark. She waited. Nothing. She waited longer. Still nothing. Ace turned back toward the others. “Done.” The microwave beeped. From the counter. Unplugged. Dark. Beep. Mai removed her coat very slowly. Shammy set the soup container in the refrigerator. Ace looked at the microwave. Then at the cord lying loose on the counter. Then at Mai. Mai’s expression had become very soft and very dangerous. “No,” Ace said, but this time it was almost pleading. Mai walked to the microwave. She opened it. Inside, on the rotating plate, sat a small packet. **NORMAL EVENING MIX** **MILD FLAVOR** **NOW WITH NOODLE NOTES** Mai closed the microwave. Turned around. Leaned back against the counter. And slid down until she was sitting on the kitchen floor. Ace stared at her. “Mai?” Mai held up one hand. “I am choosing not to understand.” Ace blinked. Shammy crossed the kitchen and sat beside her, long legs folding awkwardly. She rested one shoulder lightly against Mai’s. Ace looked at them both. Then at the microwave. Then at the floor. Then, with visible disgust at the universe and herself, sat down on Mai’s other side. For a while, none of them spoke. Rain ticked against the window. The city hummed. Somewhere in the walls, pipes shifted. The microwave did not beep again. That, somehow, made it worse. Ace leaned her head back against the cabinet. “I fought things with too many teeth that made more sense than this.” Mai nodded faintly. “Teeth are at least structurally honest.” Shammy held up the disposable fork. Ace stared. “You still have that.” “Yes.” “Why?” Shammy looked at the microwave. “In case the snacks require utensils.” Mai laughed again, quietly this time. Ace covered her face. “I hate both of you.” “No,” Mai said. Ace peeked through her fingers. Mai’s eyes were tired, silver-blue, warm at the edges. “You hate the evening.” Ace lowered her hands. “Fine. I hate the evening.” Shammy leaned her head lightly against the cabinet and looked toward the window. “The evening tried very hard.” “The evening is an idiot,” Ace said. “Yes.” Mai exhaled. “Final report,” she said. “No hostile actor identified. No anomaly confirmed. No objective threat. Multiple failures of infrastructure, service logic, coincidence density, and municipal dignity.” Ace nodded. “Recommend containment.” “Of what?” “Friday.” Shammy raised the fork. “Friday is difficult to contain.” Mai looked at the fork. Then at Ace. Then at the microwave. “Recommendation revised,” she said. “Never declare normality aloud again.” Ace pointed at her. “That part was not my fault.” “It was the first mistake.” “The first mistake was the microwave.” “The microwave reacted to your statement.” “You cannot prove causality.” Mai’s eyes sharpened. Ace immediately regretted it. “You want causality?” Mai said. “No.” “Because I can build a causality tree.” “No.” “I can start with the declaration, then map the microwave response, then correlate the elevator pre-arrival, vending machine placement, Kevin’s structural failure—” “Kevin died with honor,” Shammy murmured. “—Moon Noodle’s cross-platform harassment—” Ace groaned. “Do not give it terminology.” “—and the access panel’s ‘too normal’ classification.” Ace stared. Shammy lowered the fork. Mai stopped. The words settled. Too normal. For one second, the room changed. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Nothing moved. No light flickered. No sound vanished. But the shape of the evening tilted in memory. Too normal. Not abnormal. Not dangerous. Too normal. Ace sat very still. Mai’s expression closed slightly. Shammy’s gaze shifted toward the window, where rain slid down the glass in thin silver lines. Ace said, “No.” Mai looked at her. Ace shook her head once. “No. We are not doing that.” Mai held the silence for another heartbeat. Then nodded. “Correct.” Shammy set the fork down on the floor between them. “Not tonight.” The room softened. Pipes hummed again. Rain came back into focus. The refrigerator clicked. Somewhere outside, a siren rose and fell like a tired animal. Ace reached sideways and took Mai’s hand. Mai took Shammy’s. Shammy took Ace’s. The triangle closed without ceremony. No ritual. No glow. No pressure surge. Just three people sitting on a kitchen floor after losing a normal evening to a city that had no idea how normal worked. The microwave remained silent. The packet inside remained unopened. After a while, Ace said, “Movie?” Mai looked at her. Shammy looked at her. Ace lifted one hand. “No horror. No documentaries. No cooking shows. No romance with misunderstandings. No corporate thrillers. No experimental braindance art. No old war footage. No musicals where furniture sings.” Mai considered. “Animated comedy?” Ace narrowed her eyes. “Any cursed objects?” “Probably.” “Robots?” “Likely.” “Time loops?” “Maybe.” Shammy said, “What about fish?” Ace turned. “Fish?” “The bar had fish.” “No fish.” “Documentary about weather?” Mai and Ace said, “No.” Shammy smiled. The television turned on by itself. All three froze. The screen displayed a menu. At the top: **CONTINUE WATCHING?** Below it, one highlighted title: **A Completely Normal Evening** Ace stood. Mai stood. Shammy stood. The television remote sat on the table. Untouched. The room held its breath. Ace walked to the television. Mai did not stop her. Shammy did not equalize the air. Ace pressed the physical power button. The screen went black. Nothing else happened. Ace waited. The screen stayed black. She waited longer. Still black. She turned around. Mai raised one eyebrow. Shammy looked mildly impressed. Ace pointed at the television. “That,” she said, “is how you deal with narrative ambition.” The microwave beeped once. Ace did not look at it. Mai did not look at it. Shammy did not look at it. Together, with the solemn unity of a triad that had faced gods, monsters, corporations, spatial collapse, memetic rot, and one highly persistent noodle establishment, they walked out of the kitchen and left the microwave alone in the dark. Behind them, on the counter, the unplugged appliance sat quietly. For exactly three seconds. Then its display lit up one final time. No beep. No warning. Just a single line of green digital text: **THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING NORMAL.** And then it went dark again.