Afterlife sounded blessedly normal tonight. Glasses clinking. Music vibrating through old concrete. Mercs pretending they weren’t exhausted. Fixers pretending they weren’t predators. No emerald synchronization pulses. No probability drift. No emotionally weaponized architecture. Just ordinary Night City dysfunction. Beautiful. Ace dropped into the booth like someone whose soul had recently been run through industrial machinery. “I want the next job to involve absolutely zero concepts.” Rogue didn’t even look up from her drink. “Good timing.” Ace narrowed her eyes immediately. “That answer concerns me.” “It’s a courier job.” Mai visibly relaxed by approximately three percent. Shammy stretched comfortably beside Ace, silver-white hair still faintly static-frizzed from the ORPHEUS disaster. “A real courier job?” Rogue finally looked up. Tiny smile. “Theoretically.” Ace pointed instantly. “There. That word. That’s the word that ruins evenings.” Rogue slid a slim black datapad across the table. “One package.” Ace did not touch it. “Who’s transporting it.” “You.” “Who’s receiving it.” “Fixer handoff.” “Which fixers.” Rogue took a drink. Tiny pause. “…Professional associates.” Mai’s eyes narrowed immediately. “That means they hate each other.” “Not hate.” Another sip. “Compete aggressively.” Ace slumped backward. “Oh good. Corporate divorce energy.” Rogue ignored her. “Pickup’s in Heywood.” “Delivery?” “Private venue downtown.” “Danger level?” Rogue actually looked mildly offended. “It’s not dangerous.” Shammy tilted her head slightly. “That was a very specific denial.” “It’s a socially complicated situation.” Ace stared blankly. “…That sounds worse somehow.” “It shouldn’t.” “But it does.” Mai had already opened the datapad now. Three seconds passed. Then: “…Why are there four routing signatures.” Rogue answered instantly. “Administrative overlap.” Mai looked up slowly. “That is not a real phrase.” “It is in Night City.” Unfortunately true. Ace leaned across the table. “How many fixers are actually involved.” Rogue hesitated just long enough to become suspicious. “…Possibly three.” Mai’s expression flattened. “The paperwork shows six.” Rogue drank calmly. “Some people inserted themselves into the process.” Ace stared at her. “…You knew this was going to become stupid.” “No,” Rogue replied smoothly. Tiny pause. “I strongly suspected.” Shammy immediately started smiling. “Ace.” “I know.” “Ace.” “I KNOW.” Rogue finally slid the pickup authorization across the table. “One package.” “One evening.” “One delivery.” Ace pointed at her accusingly. “You are saying those words WAY too carefully.” Rogue leaned back slightly. “Kid, after the week you’ve had, you need perspective.” Ace narrowed her eyes. “That sounded manipulative.” “It was.” Fair enough. Mai was still analyzing the routing structure. And the longer she looked— —the more tired she became. Interesting sign. “…Why,” she asked slowly, “does the package transfer authorization include two separate valet service chains.” Rogue took another drink. “No idea.” Lie. Immediate lie. Shammy noticed too. Tiny grin widening. “You absolutely know.” Rogue finally allowed herself the faintest smirk. “Maybe.” Ace pointed again. “That face means suffering.” Rogue shrugged. “It’s not dangerous suffering.” “That is not comforting.” Then Mai froze slightly. Ace groaned immediately. “No. No more freezing.” Mai rotated the datapad. The logistics tree branching from the package handoff looked less like a courier route and more like somebody had attempted urban planning during a concussion. Vehicle swaps. Secondary relays. Hospitality routing. Private security overlap. Event access chains. Ace stared at it. “…Why does a courier package need hospitality routing.” Nobody answered immediately. Which was deeply suspicious. Then Rogue finally said: “…There may be an event involved.” Silence. Ace slowly lowered her head into her hands. “Rogue.” “What.” “What kind of event.” Rogue looked suspiciously amused now. “…Social.” --- Mai zoomed further into the logistics chain. Then stopped. Then zoomed out again like maybe the datapad itself had become incorrect. “…No.” Ace looked up immediately. “There’s the tone again.” Mai rotated the screen slowly toward them. Three separate route branches intersected at the same downtown venue. Each attached to: - different security credentials - different arrival schedules - different fixer authorizations And somehow— all tied to the same package. Shammy blinked once. “…Why are there floral-service permits.” Rogue coughed into her drink suspiciously hard. Ace pointed immediately. “THAT NOISE MEANS YOU KNEW.” Rogue waved dismissively. “It’s logistics overlap.” Mai stared at the screen. “This package is somehow routed through: a valet chain, private security, luxury catering, and event hospitality.” Tiny pause. “…Why.” Rogue looked deeply interested in the bottom of her glass. “Complex urban environments.” Ace leaned across the table slowly. “Rogue.” “What.” “What.” Rogue finally sighed. “There’s a wedding.” Silence. Complete silence. Then Ace blinked. “…Excuse me.” “Not your wedding.” “That somehow makes this MORE concerning.” Shammy had fully lost composure now, shoulders shaking silently with restrained laughter. Mai pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why is a fixer exchange happening during a wedding.” Rogue answered instantly: “Neutral ground.” Ace stared. “That is the stupidest sentence I’ve heard this week and we fought a probability cult yesterday.” Fair. Extremely fair. Mai kept reading. Then immediately: “…Why are there TWO wedding coordinators on the routing structure.” Rogue visibly tried not to smile. “Scheduling conflict.” Ace slammed both hands onto the table. “NO HUMAN BEING SAYS ‘SCHEDULING CONFLICT’ LIKE THAT UNLESS THE SITUATION IS ALREADY ON FIRE.” Several nearby mercs glanced over briefly. Then wisely ignored the booth entirely. Rogue finally leaned back slightly. “Look.” Tiny shrug. “One fixer wanted the exchange during a private event.” “Why.” “Because nobody shoots up weddings.” Ace stared at her flatly. “This is Night City.” “…Fair point.” Mai zoomed further. The routing structure somehow became worse. “Why,” she asked slowly, “does the package have emergency backup transportation.” Rogue drank calmly. “In case the limousine changes.” Silence. Ace closed her eyes. “…There’s a limousine.” “Yes.” “There was ALWAYS a limousine.” “Yes.” “Rogue.” “What.” “You hate us.” “Not true.” Tiny grin. “I find you educational.” Shammy finally broke completely and started laughing openly into her sleeve. Mai, meanwhile, had entered the specific kind of mental state usually reserved for catastrophic systems engineering failures. “Why,” she asked very carefully, “are there three separate merc crews attached to package contingency.” Rogue answered immediately. “Nobody trusts anybody.” Ace pointed accusingly. “That is the FIRST honest thing you’ve said tonight.” The datapad suddenly chimed. Mai checked the incoming update. Then stared blankly. “…The pickup point changed.” Ace looked upward toward the ceiling like appealing to higher powers. “We haven’t even left the bar.” Rogue nodded sympathetically. “Rough start.” Mai checked the update chain again. “The courier rerouted because the original driver got into an argument with venue parking.” Shammy blinked. “That’s real?” “The argument apparently escalated into ‘territorial disrespect.’” Ace slowly stood up from the booth. “Mai.” “Yes.” “If this ends with us in formal clothing—” “It probably will.” Ace stared at Rogue. Long pause. “…You absolutely knew this was going to become a clownfire.” Rogue finally smiled fully for the first time all evening. “Professional courtesy.” --- The drive to Heywood took forty-three minutes. Thirty-eight of those minutes were spent listening to two fixers argue through a shared holo-call about who technically owned “arrival authority.” Ace sat in the passenger seat staring dead-eyed through rain-streaked glass while Mai handled comms with increasingly clinical despair. “You altered the route authorization after confirmation,” Mai said flatly. Fixer #1 immediately snapped back: > “Because HE changed the venue ingress.” Fixer #2: > “I changed the ingress because your courier insulted the valet coordinator.” Ace slowly turned toward the dashboard. “…Sentence of the year.” Shammy sat in the backseat listening quietly while traffic crawled through neon and exhaust haze. “So the package changed drivers,” she summarized softly. “Yes,” Mai replied. “Because someone offended parking staff.” “Yes.” “…Night City really is a social experiment.” Ace pointed backward. “THANK YOU.” The holo-call somehow became worse. Fixer #1: > “Your people escalated first.” Fixer #2: > “My people don’t escalate.” At that exact moment, another voice entered the call screaming: > “WHO TOLD THE MARIACHI BAND TO FOLLOW THE CONVOY.” Silence. Ace blinked once. “…There’s a WHAT.” Mai muted the call instantly. Good survival instinct. The vehicle interior became blissfully quiet except for rain and engine noise. Then Ace turned slowly toward Mai. “There’s a mariachi band.” “Yes.” “Why.” Mai checked the logistics feed. Long pause. “…Unknown.” Shammy leaned slightly forward between the seats. “I respect that nobody seems fully in charge anymore.” “Oh, we passed that point twenty minutes ago,” Ace muttered. Mai’s datapad chimed again. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession. Ace physically recoiled. “That sound means suffering.” Mai checked the incoming updates. “…The package has been transferred again.” Ace stared blankly. “To who.” Mai zoomed into the routing chain. “…That is unclear.” “MAI.” “One route says private courier.” Swipe. “One says venue staff.” Swipe. “One says ceremonial transport.” Silence. Ace turned very slowly toward her. “What.” Mai finally looked up. “…I think the package may currently be inside the wedding infrastructure.” Shammy immediately lost composure again. Ace gripped the dashboard with one hand. “No.” Mai nodded once. “Yes.” “No.” “The route tags indicate decorative integration.” “…Decorative.” “Potentially centerpiece-adjacent.” Ace closed her eyes. “Rogue is going to hell.” The holo-call unmuted itself suddenly because Fixer #2 was apparently screaming loudly enough to override auto-suppression. > “WHY IS THE PACKAGE LISTED UNDER FLORAL MANAGEMENT.” Fixer #1 immediately: > “THAT IS NOT MY FAULT.” Another unknown voice: > “WHO AUTHORIZED A HORSE.” Ace slowly opened her eyes again. “…There’s a horse.” Mai checked the feed. “…Temporary horse.” “That sentence is evil.” Traffic finally cleared as they entered the downtown district. Ahead, luxury towers rose through rain and holographic haze while wedding convoy vehicles clogged the valet approach lanes outside an aggressively expensive hotel complex. And immediately— —they saw the problem. There wasn’t one limousine. There were six. All black. All luxury-class. All currently surrounded by: - merc crews - catering staff - screaming valet personnel - confused guests - at least one mariachi band Ace stared through the windshield in absolute silence. Then: “…This is a terrorist attack against organization.” Shammy quietly wiped tears of laughter from one eye. Mai was already scanning convoy identifiers. And somehow her expression became even more exhausted. “…Ace.” “No.” “One limousine is missing.” Ace turned slowly. “What do you mean missing.” “It left twelve minutes ago.” Silence. Then the holo-call erupted again: > “WHO LET THE WEDDING CONVOY LEAVE.” --- The entire hotel frontage had collapsed into weaponized confusion. Luxury vehicles jammed the circular arrival lane bumper-to-bumper while drenched valet staff screamed at mercenaries who screamed at wedding planners who screamed at catering coordinators who screamed at each other. And somehow— —the mariachi band was still playing. Ace stepped out of the car slowly. Rain hammered black pavement around flashing hotel lights while one exhausted security guard nearby muttered into his comm: > “No, I don’t know why there’s a horse. > > Stop asking me about the horse.” Shammy immediately folded forward laughing again. Mai scanned convoy identifiers with ruthless concentration. “Three limousines are decoys.” Ace blinked. “WHY ARE THERE DECOYS.” Fixer #1 screamed through comms instantly: > “FOR SECURITY.” Fixer #2: > “YOU ARE TRANSPORTING WEDDING JEWELRY NOT A NUCLEAR DEVICE.” Another voice: > “THE GROOM IS CRYING.” Ace pointed upward violently. “WHO IS THE GROOM.” Nobody answered. Bad sign. Very bad sign. Then a wedding coordinator stormed directly toward Triad holding three datapads and the expression of someone approaching nervous-system collapse. “You.” Ace immediately: “No.” The coordinator ignored that. “Are you the package security team.” Mai answered cautiously. “…Define security.” “You need to find limousine four.” Ace frowned. “There are six limousines.” “Not anymore.” Silence. Ace closed her eyes briefly. “Mai.” “Yes.” “If you tell me a limousine disappeared into traffic carrying the package—” “It disappeared into traffic carrying _something._” Shammy physically leaned against the car trying not to laugh herself unconscious. The wedding coordinator shoved a datapad toward Mai. “The wrong bridal convoy departed twelve minutes ago because valet staging mixed the priority tags.” Ace stared blankly. “…Bridal convoy.” “Yes.” “The package is in the bridal convoy.” “…Why.” The coordinator looked genuinely offended by the question. “Because somebody relabeled ceremonial transport during a route update.” Fixer #1 immediately exploded through comms: > “THAT WAS AN ADMINISTRATIVE PLACEHOLDER.” Fixer #2: > “YOU USED THE WORD CEREMONIAL.” Fixer #1: > “IT WAS TEMPORARY.” Mai looked deeply dead inside now. “The package has become wedding-adjacent through bureaucratic drift.” Ace pointed at her. “DO NOT MAKE THIS SOUND SCIENTIFIC.” Another hotel staff member sprinted toward them in full panic mode. “The family thinks they’re being robbed.” Ace blinked. “Are they.” “…Unclear.” Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Then a third voice burst through the comm channel: > “WHY IS THERE AN ARMED MOTORCYCLE ESCORT FOLLOWING THE BRIDESMAIDS.” Fixer #2 screamed: > “THOSE AREN’T MY MERCS.” Another merc voice: > “WE THOUGHT THE VIP TRANSFER ALREADY STARTED.” The wedding coordinator looked ready to die. Mai finally located the missing limousine route. Then froze. Ace saw it instantly. “No.” Mai rotated the datapad slowly. The runaway limousine convoy was heading toward: ## The wrong wedding venue. Shammy made an actual choking noise trying not to laugh. Ace stared into the rain for several long seconds. “…There are multiple weddings.” “Yes,” Mai replied quietly. “The valet routing system merged two luxury event schedules.” One full second of silence. Then Ace whispered: “…Rogue is the devil.” A fresh notification chimed across Mai’s datapad. AUTOMATED CITY SECURITY NOTICE MULTIPLE ARMED VEHICLES TRACKING VIP CONVOY THREAT ASSESSMENT PENDING Ace immediately pointed. “No.” Mai’s expression flattened. “Yes.” The city AI had interpreted: - armed escorts - rerouted limousines - conflicting convoy behavior - merc communications as a potential organized extraction operation. Shammy leaned slightly toward the datapad. “…How close are we to MaxTac.” Mai checked the escalation ladder. Then: “…Closer than I’d like.” At that exact moment, somewhere across the hotel frontage— —a horse escaped. Nobody knew from where. Nobody knew why. But suddenly a white ceremonial horse bolted through the rain between luxury vehicles while a mariachi trumpet hit the loudest note humanly possible. The entire arrival lane erupted into screaming. Ace stared blankly at the scene. Then very calmly: “…I miss the probability cult.” --- The horse situation escalated immediately. Of course it did. Rain hammered the luxury arrival lane while the white ceremonial horse sprinted between screaming valet workers and black limousines like some kind of aristocratic cryptid. The mariachi band never stopped playing. Not once. Ace watched the horse clear a decorative fountain in slow-motion disbelief. “…That animal has better survival instincts than everyone here.” Shammy was openly crying laughing now. Actual tears. Mai, meanwhile, was attempting to prevent municipal catastrophe. “The city AI threat assessment just escalated to organized convoy anomaly.” Ace turned sharply. “WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.” Mai looked exhausted beyond language. “It means the traffic control system thinks somebody important is being kidnapped.” Fair. Honestly fair. The convoy looked extremely kidnappable. Another comm channel exploded open: > “WHO DEPLOYED DRONES.” Fixer #1: > “THOSE ARE MEDIA DRONES.” Fixer #2: > “WHY ARE THERE MEDIA DRONES.” Another voice: > “THEY THOUGHT THIS WAS A CELEBRITY WEDDING.” Ace grabbed the bridge of her nose hard enough to cause structural concern. Then the wedding coordinator reappeared somehow even more distressed than before. “The bridesmaids are refusing extraction.” Silence. Ace blinked once. “…Extraction.” “They think the armed escort is part of the premium experience package.” Shammy physically folded against the car laughing. Mai checked another routing update. Then immediately: “…The runaway limousine stopped.” Ace pointed dramatically. “GOOD.” Tiny pause. “…At a nightclub.” Silence. Ace slowly lowered her hand. “No.” “Yes.” “Why.” Mai zoomed into the venue data. “…Because the secondary wedding venue and the nightclub share underground valet access.” The entire city was apparently designed by cocaine. A fresh scream erupted nearby as one merc crew accidentally confronted the wrong bridal party. Three soaked women in expensive dresses were now yelling at heavily armed solos while one terrified best man repeatedly shouted: > “SHE’S NOT THE TARGET.” Ace stared into the middle distance. “…I can feel my lifespan shortening.” Then a citywide public alert suddenly flashed across multiple nearby holo-displays: TEMPORARY TRAFFIC DIVERSION ACTIVE DOWNTOWN VIP SECURITY RESPONSE Mai went still. Ace noticed immediately. “No.” Mai looked up slowly. “MaxTac dispatch routing entered pre-authorization staging.” Everybody froze. Not because MaxTac was actually coming. Yet. But because once the city AI started connecting: - armed vehicles - rerouted VIP convoys - multiple merc groups - conflicting escort telemetry …it became increasingly difficult to convince automated systems this was merely catastrophic incompetence. And the worst part? Nobody involved could explain the situation coherently. At all. Another call burst through comms: > “WHO HAS THE PACKAGE.” Nobody answered immediately. Then: > “WE THOUGHT YOU HAD IT.” Another voice: > “NO WE THOUGHT THE BRIDE HAD IT.” Ace stared at the rain. “…The BRIDE has it.” Mai checked the latest convoy telemetry. “…Potentially.” The wedding coordinator looked moments away from spiritual collapse. “We don’t even know which bride anymore.” That sentence finally broke Ace completely. She leaned against the car laughing once. Not happy laughter. The kind people make when the brain refuses additional information. Shammy pointed weakly toward the hotel entrance. “The mariachi band followed the wrong convoy too.” And indeed— —half the musicians were currently loading equipment into tactical escort vehicles because nobody had corrected them. One merc was helping carry a trumpet case while discussing suppressive fire routes. Mai’s datapad chimed again. Then immediately again. Then again. She stared at the incoming chain. “…Oh no.” Ace pointed instantly. “YOU TOO NOW?” Mai rotated the datapad slowly. The city AI had now merged: - the wedding convoy - the merc pursuit groups - the horse incident - the nightclub reroute into a single evolving security interpretation. OFFICIAL STATUS: POSSIBLE HIGH-VALUE EXTRACTION EVENT Shammy actually wheezed laughing. Ace looked skyward through pounding rain. “Rogue is watching this happen somewhere with a drink in her hand.” --- The nightclub was called _Eclipse Velvet._ Which told Ace everything she needed to know about the quality of decisions involved. Rain hammered the street outside while black luxury limousines clogged the curb lane beneath pulsing violet holo-signs and aggressively expensive bass music. The wrong wedding convoy had apparently arrived mid-VIP nightlife event and somehow nobody had stopped them. Because Night City. Naturally. Triad pushed through the entrance just as two armed mercs argued with a nightclub hostess about ceremonial access permissions. “…Why,” Ace asked quietly, “is there a guest list dispute during an active fake extraction.” Mai checked the datapad. “The bridal convoy entered through premium access.” “WHY DOES A NIGHTCLUB HAVE PREMIUM BRIDAL ACCESS.” Nobody had an answer. Inside, the situation somehow became worse. The runaway wedding party had partially merged with: - a corpo bachelor event - a nightclub VIP launch party - and at least one unrelated influencer gathering Nobody understood who belonged where anymore. The mariachi band had arrived before Triad somehow. Of course they had. They were currently performing near the VIP staircase while confused club patrons filmed everything. Ace stared at one soaked trumpet player wearing tactical body armor someone had apparently handed him accidentally. “…I am hallucinating.” Shammy had reached the dangerous stage of laughter where she physically could not stand upright properly anymore. Meanwhile Mai was still trying to solve the package routing chain like it was an urban warfare simulation designed by clowns. “…The bride may no longer possess the package.” Ace blinked slowly. “What do you MEAN ‘may.’” Mai zoomed further into the convoy logs. “The package appears to have transferred during coat-check confusion.” Silence. Then Ace whispered: “…Coat-check.” “Yes.” The nightclub hostess suddenly appeared beside them with the exhausted dead-eyed calm of someone who had accepted fate hours ago. “Are you here about the screaming bride or the armed wedding people.” Ace answered immediately: “Yes.” The hostess nodded like that made perfect sense. “VIP level’s worse.” Naturally. Triad ascended into the upper lounge level where the entire event had apparently evolved into socially weaponized chaos. One crying groom. Two furious bridesmaids. Three merc crews pretending not to monitor each other. A drunk best man attempting diplomacy through tequila. And somehow— —a corpo HR representative. Ace physically stopped walking. “…Why is there HR.” The hostess answered immediately: “Because one of the fixers routed the exchange through a corporate hospitality account.” Mai closed her eyes briefly. “The package is trapped inside bureaucracy.” Then all hell almost broke loose. A loud automated voice echoed suddenly through the nightclub: > “CITY SECURITY NOTICE: > > VIP THREAT RESPONSE UNITS STANDING BY.” The room froze. Every merc in the lounge simultaneously realized the city AI was seconds away from upgrading the situation from “confusing” to “catastrophic.” One drunk bridesmaid immediately pointed at Ace. “SEE? I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A HIT.” Ace looked genuinely offended. “I don’t even know you.” The crying groom suddenly stepped toward Mai holding a decorative velvet case. “…Is this the thing everyone’s yelling about.” Silence. Mai slowly looked down at the case. Then at the telemetry. Then at the groom. “…Yes.” The entire lounge went dead quiet. The groom blinked once. “…Oh.” Ace stared. “YOU HAD IT.” The groom looked increasingly nervous. “Nobody told me not to take the gift table items.” The drunk best man immediately shouted: > “I SAID DON’T TOUCH MYSTERY BOXES.” Fixer #1 exploded through comms: > “THAT IS THE PACKAGE?” Fixer #2: > “WHY DID THE GROOM HAVE IT.” The groom looked genuinely apologetic. “I thought it was part of the anniversary presentation.” Ace slowly turned toward Mai. “…Anniversary.” Mai opened the velvet case carefully. Inside rested: two absurdly expensive custom engagement rings beside a handwritten note. That was it. No anomaly. No data shard. No blackmail material. Just rings. Extremely expensive rings. The entire city had nearly triggered MaxTac deployment over relationship jewelry. Shammy finally sat down directly on the nightclub floor laughing uncontrollably. The citywide AI alert abruptly downgraded: THREAT STATUS REDUCED LIKELY CIVILIAN MISCOMMUNICATION EVENT Ace stared at the alert. Then at the rings. Then at the merc crews. Then at the crying groom. Long silence. Finally: “…I survived a probability cult for this.” --- The entire VIP lounge remained silent for approximately four full seconds. Which, considering the last three hours, was statistically miraculous. Rain hammered the nightclub windows. Mariachi music drifted faintly up from downstairs. Someone in the distance screamed about valet validation. And in the center of the room— —the package. Two engagement rings. That was it. The crying groom looked around nervously. “…Are we being robbed.” Ace answered immediately: “I genuinely no longer know.” Fixer #1 exploded through comms: > “THOSE RINGS ARE WORTH HALF A MILLION EURODOLLARS.” The drunk best man blinked. “…Okay in fairness that IS a lot.” Fixer #2 immediately: > “WHY WERE THEY IN A VELVET BOX ON A GIFT TABLE.” The groom pointed weakly. “Because it looked romantic.” Nobody had the strength to argue anymore. Mai carefully scanned the rings while multiple merc crews stared at each other in shared emotional exhaustion. “Authentic,” she confirmed quietly. “Custom-made.” Tiny pause. “…Emotionally significant.” Ace looked upward toward the nightclub ceiling. “Fantastic.” Then the corpo HR representative stepped forward. Nobody had noticed him moving. Which somehow made him more frightening. He adjusted his soaked suit slightly and cleared his throat. “…Now that the misunderstanding appears resolved, we should discuss liability.” Every merc in the room looked at him with immediate hatred. Ace blinked slowly. “…Excuse me.” The HR rep opened a datapad. “There were: - four unauthorized firearms displays - three transportation deviations - one ceremonial animal event - and a possible VIP emotional distress exposure.” Silence. Then Shammy quietly lost control laughing again. The HR rep continued professionally: “Our hospitality division will require signatures regarding property damage and panic escalation.” Ace stared at him in disbelief. “You almost triggered MaxTac.” “Yes,” the HR rep replied calmly. “Which is why the paperwork is substantial.” The crying groom suddenly pointed at the merc crews. “Wait, were all of you chasing the rings?” Fixer #1: > “YES.” Fixer #2: > “APPARENTLY.” The drunk best man looked deeply offended. “You people made my cousin cry over jewelry.” Ace pointed instantly. “CORRECT.” Then a mariachi trumpet blared downstairs loud enough to shake the floor. Nobody reacted anymore. They had transcended surprise. Mai finally closed the velvet case carefully. “Delivery chain restored.” Ace stared at her. “You sound like you survived war.” “I did.” Fair. The nightclub hostess reappeared at the lounge entrance looking spiritually exhausted. “Good news.” Nobody trusted those words. “The horse was recovered.” Shammy actually slid off the couch laughing. Ace whispered: “There was no reason for there to BE a horse.” The hostess nodded sympathetically. “I know.” Then another comm alert arrived. Mai checked it. Paused. Then very slowly looked up. Ace immediately pointed. “No.” Mai’s face remained completely flat. “Rogue is asking if the evening is proceeding professionally.” Silence. Absolute silence. Then every single person in the room— mercs, wedding staff, hostess, even the HR representative— collectively groaned. Ace took the datapad from Mai manually. Then typed one sentence: > “I am going to haunt you biologically.” Send. Two seconds later Rogue replied: > “So everything’s under control?” Ace nearly threw the datapad into traffic. The crying groom looked around cautiously. “…So are we still getting married tonight.” One bridesmaid immediately: > “ABSOLUTELY NOT TONIGHT.” The best man: > “Honestly maybe postpone forever.” Fixer #2: > “Can somebody PLEASE finalize the exchange before another convoy forms.” Mai handed the velvet case calmly to the appropriate courier at last. Biometric confirmation. Transfer authorization. Chain complete. Done. Three hours. Six merc crews. Two wedding venues. One nightclub. One near-MaxTac escalation. One horse. For rings. The city AI officially closed the incident as: NON-HOSTILE VIP LOGISTICS FAILURE Ace read the classification twice. Then slowly: “…Night City should not be allowed to organize anything more complicated than soup.” Shammy was still laughing when they finally left the nightclub into cold rain and neon haze. And somewhere back in Afterlife— —Rogue was almost certainly smiling into her drink like the absolute devil she was. --- # EPILOGUE — “Professional Courtesy” Afterlife was quieter now. Not actually quiet. Just late enough that the noise softened into tired merc conversations, clinking glasses, old music, and people pretending tomorrow did not exist yet. Rainwater still dripped from Ace’s coat onto the floor as Triad approached Rogue’s booth. Rogue looked up once. Saw their faces. And immediately started smiling into her drink. Ace pointed at her from halfway across the room already. “No.” Rogue’s smile widened slightly. “How’d the delivery go.” That did it. Ace arrived at the booth like a guided missile powered entirely by accumulated social trauma. “YOU.” Several nearby mercs immediately stopped talking. Correct instinct. Rogue remained completely calm. “Yes.” “You knew.” “Knew what.” Ace slapped both hands onto the table hard enough to rattle glasses. “THE WEDDING.” “Ah.” “THE MULTIPLE WEDDINGS.” Rogue took a slow drink. “There were more than one?” Ace made a sound usually associated with structural failure. Shammy collapsed sideways into the booth behind her laughing hard enough to become nonfunctional again. Mai sat down with the precise exhausted posture of someone who had lost a war against logistics itself. Rogue looked genuinely pleased now. “No fatalities?” Ace stared. “No fatalities?” “That’s usually the important metric.” Ace pointed violently. “WE ALMOST TRIGGERED MAXTAC OVER ENGAGEMENT RINGS.” Several mercs nearby immediately looked over with intense interest. Rogue blinked once. “…Rings.” “The package was RINGS.” “Huh.” “You did not know that.” “No.” Tiny pause. “I assumed expensive alcohol.” Ace sat down purely because human legs had limits. Rain hammered softly against Afterlife’s exterior while Rogue watched Triad with the unmistakable expression of someone enjoying herself immensely. Mai slid the completed delivery authorization across the table. “Professional courtesy transfer complete.” Rogue looked down at it. Then slowly raised one eyebrow. “…Why does this paperwork include equestrian incident reports.” Shammy immediately broke again. Ace pointed furiously across the table. “THERE WAS A HORSE.” Rogue finally laughed. Actual laughter. Rare enough nearby mercs visibly glanced over. “A horse.” “NOBODY KNOWS WHY.” Mai rubbed at her eyes tiredly. “The horse was technically unrelated to the package.” Ace looked at her in disbelief. “DO NOT DEFEND THE HORSE.” Rogue was openly smiling now. Dangerous sight. “What happened with the convoy.” Ace leaned forward slowly. “You want the SHORT version or the psychologically damaging version.” “The funnier one.” “YOU ARE A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING.” Fair. Very fair. One bartender quietly placed fresh drinks at the booth without being asked. Professional instinct. Ace pointed at Rogue again while grabbing the glass. “You knew this would happen.” “I knew it would become complicated.” “There was a MARIACHI TACTICAL ESCORT.” Rogue nearly lost composure at that one. Mai answered with perfect deadpan: “One musician received suppressive fire instructions.” A nearby merc choked on his drink laughing. Ace continued like an emotionally exhausted prosecutor. “There were: - six limousines - two weddings - one nightclub - three merc crews - one corpo HR representative - and the city AI thought we were performing a high-value extraction.” Rogue nodded slowly. “Sounds about right.” Ace physically recoiled. “YOU SAY THAT LIKE IT’S NORMAL.” “It is normal.” Tiny shrug. “You just don’t usually see all the moving parts at once.” That sentence landed harder than expected. Because annoyingly— —she was right. Night City probably functioned like this constantly beneath the surface: overlapping egos, broken communication, merc paranoia, fixer politics, social theater held together with duct tape and threats. Triad had simply been trapped close enough to witness the machinery directly. Mai finally took a long drink. Then quietly: “There was no optimal solution.” Rogue immediately looked delighted. “Oh that’s serious.” Mai stared into the middle distance. “The routing structure became mathematically insulting.” Shammy still couldn’t breathe properly from laughing. “The mariachi band followed the wrong tactical convoy voluntarily.” Ace added flatly: “One of them helped carry ammunition.” Rogue finally leaned back slightly, openly amused now. “You know what the best part is?” Ace narrowed her eyes immediately. “No.” “The fixers involved are still blaming each other.” “…Good.” “One of them thinks the wedding planner sabotaged the exchange intentionally.” “…Also good.” “The wedding planner thinks the merc crews were immersive entertainment.” Ace stared blankly for a second. Then slowly lowered her forehead onto the table. “I fought a probability cult yesterday.” Rogue sipped her drink calmly. “And tonight you fought administration.” Long silence. Then Ace pointed weakly upward without lifting her head. “…The administration was worse.” That finally killed Shammy completely. She folded sideways against Mai laughing hard enough to wheeze while even Mai lost composure briefly behind one exhausted hand. Rogue raised her glass slightly toward Ace. “Professional courtesy.” Ace looked up just enough to glare at her. “I am going to become your long-term problem.” Rogue smirked faintly. “Kid.” Tiny pause. “You already are.” And honestly? That was probably the closest thing to affection anyone in Afterlife was emotionally equipped to say out loud.