## Chapter 1 — Wakako Calls The message arrived just after noon. Which, in Night City terms, usually meant one of three things. Someone wanted something. Someone wanted someone dead. Or someone wanted both. Ace was lying upside down across the Safehouse couch when her agent chimed. She glanced at the screen. "Wakako." Mai looked up from her tablet. Shammy looked up from absolutely nothing, which somehow remained one of her more alarming habits. Ace stared at the notification. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the notification. "It's not going away." Mai sighed. "That is generally how messages work." "I was hoping it would solve itself." "It is Wakako." "Good point." That alone reduced the chances dramatically. Wakako Okada did not contact people because she was bored. The old fixer had survived decades in Night City by treating time as a resource more valuable than money. If she was calling, she wanted something. Ten minutes later they were walking through Japantown. The city breathed around them. Neon advertisements crawled across building faces. Traffic drifted overhead. Someone was selling noodles from a cart that looked older than several governments. For once, Ace found herself simply watching. No immediate threat. No impossible anomaly. No ancient horror trying to rewrite reality. Just Night City. It felt strangely refreshing. "You're smiling." Ace glanced sideways. Mai's expression was entirely neutral. Which meant she was enjoying herself. A little. "Am not." "You are." "Could be indigestion." "You don't get indigestion." "Then it remains a mystery." Shammy laughed. The sound disappeared into the noise of the street. A few pedestrians glanced their way. More than one looked twice. That happened often. The Triad attracted attention. Not because they tried. Because they failed not to. Ace eventually reached for Mai's hand without thinking. No announcement. No reason. Just a small gesture performed so automatically that it barely registered. Mai squeezed once. Shammy rolled her eyes. "There they are." "What?" "The two of you." Ace looked genuinely confused. Shammy pointed. "You do that every time." "We do what?" "You start holding hands whenever nobody is actively trying to kill us." Mai considered this. "...that is statistically accurate." Ace frowned. "Really?" "Very." "Huh." The discussion ended there. Mostly because Wakako's establishment had appeared ahead. And nobody enjoyed being late for Wakako. Not if they intended to remain alive. --- The tea was already waiting. Of course it was. Wakako sat exactly where she always seemed to sit. Ace occasionally suspected the woman simply existed in multiple locations simultaneously. It would explain several things. The fixer regarded them over the rim of her cup. "Please." The invitation was unnecessary. They sat anyway. For a moment nobody spoke. Tea. Silence. Observation. Classic Wakako. Then: "I have a problem." Ace leaned back. "That's usually why people call us." "Indeed." Wakako set her cup down. The sound was soft. Deliberate. "There is a group operating in my territory." "Organized crime?" "No." "Cult?" "No." "Cyberpsychos?" "No." A pause. Then: "They are ninjas." Silence. Absolute silence. Ace blinked. Once. Twice. Mai removed her glasses. Shammy stared at Wakako. Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally: "...ninjas." "Yes." "Actual ninjas?" "No." "Thank God." Shammy immediately started laughing. Mai pinched the bridge of her nose. Ace looked disappointed. "A little actual ninja would have been fun." "No it would not." "It would." "It absolutely would not." Wakako allowed them approximately ten seconds. Then: "The children are irrelevant." The room settled immediately. There it was. The reason she had called. Not the joke. The problem behind it. Wakako folded her hands. "Their leader is not." Ace noticed the change first. Not in Wakako. In the room. The humor evaporated. Just slightly. Enough. "Name?" "Red Death." The name hung there. Dramatic. Almost ridiculous. Yet Wakako did not sound amused. Which meant something. Mai noticed it too. "You are concerned." "No." That answer arrived too quickly. Wakako took another sip of tea. Then corrected herself. "I am annoyed." Ace smirked. That was usually worse. "When Wakako gets annoyed, people tend to die." "Only the unreasonable ones." "Comforting." The fixer ignored her. "Most of the group consists of wealthy corporate offspring." A gesture. Dismissive. "They play at being warriors." That sounded much closer to what Ace had expected. Expensive weapons. Expensive training. Expensive stupidity. Night City produced those by the truckload. "Red Death?" Wakako's gaze sharpened slightly. "He does not play." The room became quiet again. "There is a difference." That sentence landed harder than the name. Because Wakako was not impressed by many people. Certainly not random street performers wearing black pajamas. Yet here she was. Taking one of them seriously. Interesting. Very interesting. Mai leaned forward slightly. "What exactly has he done?" "Nothing." "...nothing." "Not yet." Ace caught the wording immediately. Not yet. There was the real problem. Wakako continued. "He recruits." "He trains." "He organizes." "He gives purpose to young people with too much money and too little discipline." Another sip of tea. Another small pause. "He is becoming influential." That sounded far more dangerous than ninjas. Ace felt the first spark of interest. Not because of the organization. Because of the man. The one person Wakako had separated from the rest. The one person she had not dismissed. "Do we know if he's actually good?" Wakako looked directly at Ace. "That is what I am paying you to discover." And for the first time since entering the room— Ace smiled. --- ## Chapter 2 — Rich Kids Playing War Wakako's information package arrived before they had finished the tea. Naturally. Mai's agent accepted the file with a soft chime. She opened it, skimmed the first layer, and made the particular expression she used whenever Night City managed to disappoint her without surprising her. Ace noticed. "That bad?" Mai turned the screen slightly. Ace leaned over. Shammy leaned over Ace. Which left all three of them arranged in a way that would have made a professional briefing consultant weep. Wakako watched without comment. The file contained images. Dozens of them. Men and women in black tactical shinobi outfits, if one was feeling generous. Expensive polymer fabric. Carbon-thread reinforcement. Smart-fabric masks. Ornamental shoulder guards. Too many straps. Too many blades. Far too much posing. Ace stared at the first image for three full seconds. Then the second. Then the third. "No." Mai looked at her. "No?" "No." Shammy was already smiling. Ace pointed at the screen. "That one has six knives on his chest." Mai glanced down. "Seven." "Why?" "To show that he owns knives." "He can't draw half of those." "No." "He'd stab himself." "Possibly." Shammy tapped another image. "This one has smoke bombs." Ace squinted. "Those are party fog canisters." "Apparently custom modified." "That makes it worse." Wakako sipped her tea. "Their families pay well for custom stupidity." Mai scrolled deeper into the file. Names. Corporate affiliations. Schools. Private tutors. Martial arts instructors. Equipment suppliers. A few arrests that had disappeared very quickly. Several hospital visits described as "training-related accidents." Ace saw one familiar corporate logo and snorted. "Of course." "Arasaka?" Shammy guessed. "Two of them." "Kang Tao?" "Four." "Biotechnica?" Mai sighed. "One." Ace looked offended. "Biotechnica ninja?" "Apparently." "That should be illegal." "It may be." "Good." Wakako allowed the absurdity to breathe for exactly one more moment. Then she reached across the table and tapped one section of the file. Red Death. There were no clear images. That was the first interesting thing. Everyone else in the so-called clan had images everywhere. Training reels. Stylized rooftop poses. Private event footage. Social media leaks. Security stills. Embarrassing party captures. Money made people visible in Night City, even when they wanted to pretend they lived in shadow. Red Death did not. The file held only fragments. A red blur crossing a balcony camera. A figure on a rooftop at night. A masked face half caught in reflection. A sword angled downward, cleaned too carefully to be ceremonial. Ace stopped smiling. Mai noticed. Shammy noticed Mai noticing. Wakako noticed all of it. "That is the difference," the fixer said. Ace said nothing. She enlarged one image with two fingers. Not the face. The stance. Weight distribution. Left foot slightly angled. Right knee relaxed. Sword held in a way that did not look dramatic at all. That mattered. People who wanted to look dangerous held weapons for the viewer. People who knew weapons held them for use. "Hm." Mai heard the shift in Ace's voice. "What?" Ace did not answer immediately. She zoomed again. The image blurred. Still enough. "He knows how not to waste movement." Wakako's eyes flickered once. Not surprise. Confirmation. "That is why I called." The tea had gone cold by then. No one cared. --- They left Wakako with a location. Not the main gathering place. Wakako did not have that. Not yet. Red Death's people moved in layers. The outer layer was visible, loud, rich, and stupid. The inner layer changed buildings, routes, meeting points, and schedules with more discipline than the rest of the group seemed capable of producing on its own. That also mattered. "Someone is teaching them counter-surveillance," Mai said as they walked. "Badly?" "Unevenly." "That's worse?" "It means some of them are following instructions without understanding them." Ace made a face. "Rich kid tactical theater." "Exactly." Shammy's hair shifted in the faint draft between passing traffic streams. Blue light from a ramen sign moved across her cheek, fractured there for half a second, and disappeared. "But not all theater." Ace looked at her. Shammy's attention had gone distant. Not absent. Never absent. She was listening to the city in whatever strange way her body understood pressure and intention. "No," Ace said quietly. "Not all." They found the first training site in a converted entertainment warehouse near the edge of Japantown, wedged between a shuttered braindance club and an imported luxury-goods storage facility. It had no sign. Which was probably meant to be subtle. The private security drone above the roof was not subtle. The motion-sensitive fake bonsai by the service door was not subtle either. Ace stood in the alley and stared at it. Mai followed her gaze. "No." "It moved." "It is a camera." "It's a tree." "It is a camera shaped like a tree." Ace's eyes narrowed. "I hate this city." Shammy leaned down slightly beside her. "It hates you back." "Good." The door lock was expensive. The security protocol was expensive. The person who had installed both had been cheap. Mai bypassed the outer system in under forty seconds. Shammy kept watch. Ace waited with the intense patience of someone who had already decided where every body in the alley would fall if the door opened badly. It did not. Mai finished. The lock clicked. Ace looked at her. Mai raised one eyebrow. "Say it." "No." "Say it." "I am not praising you for opening a bad lock." "You were thinking it." "I think many things." Shammy smiled. "She was thinking it." Mai looked satisfied. Ace muttered something in Japanese that neither of them needed translated. They went in. The interior smelled like expensive rubber mats, synthetic incense, sweat, and money. A bad combination. The front room had been arranged like a training hall by people who had watched too much historical drama and understood none of it. Paper screens that were not paper. Wall scrolls with machine-translated kanji. A weapons rack polished so heavily it reflected the ceiling lights. Black uniforms hung in precise rows. The room was dramatic. Beautiful, even. Also useless. Ace walked past the weapon rack and immediately made a small noise of disgust. Mai glanced at her. "What?" "Decorative balance." "The swords?" "All of them." "All?" Ace picked one up. Held it. Let the blade settle. Her mouth twisted. "Someone paid a lot for a bad idea." Shammy examined a row of throwing stars. "These are sharp." "Sharp is not the same as good." "I know. I just thought it deserved a small compliment." "No." Mai moved through the room, recording details. Suppliers. Access marks. Training schedules. Membership symbols. A lacquered display board listed ranks. Not by earned grade. By tier. Silver. Obsidian. Crimson. Platinum Shadow. Ace stared at that one. "Platinum Shadow." Mai did not look up. "I saw." "Mai." "I saw." "Platinum." "Yes." "Shadow." "Yes." "Can I leave?" "No." Shammy made a strangled sound behind them. Ace turned. "What?" "Nothing." "You're laughing." "No." "You are." "I am atmospherically destabilized." "That means laughing." "It might." The first half of the building was exactly what Wakako had described. The private fantasy of people who had bought discipline in installments and expected meaning to arrive with the invoice. Training footage played on one wall. Students in black moved through choreographed sequences. Some were not terrible. That was almost worse. They had coordination. Athleticism. Implants, in some cases. Expensive instructors had given them pieces of real technique. Pieces. Not understanding. Not pressure. Not consequence. Ace watched one clip for thirty seconds, then stopped it with a tap. "He leaves his throat open every time he turns." Mai marked the file. Another clip. "That one overcommits." Another. "That one thinks jumping is strategy." Shammy tilted her head. "Is it not?" Ace looked up at her. Shammy smiled too innocently. Ace pointed two fingers at her. "Don't." Mai's lips twitched. The second hall was different. Not immediately. At first, it looked cheaper. No polished decor. No dramatic lighting. No theatrical wall displays. Just mats. Old wood. Impact posts. A hanging bag repaired several times. Weapon marks across the floor. Sweat dried into the corners. Tape on the walls. A cracked mirror that had never been replaced. Ace stopped in the doorway. The humor left her face. Mai stopped because Ace did. Shammy stopped because the air changed. This room did not belong with the rest. It had no performance in it. No audience. No vanity. Ace stepped inside. Slowly. Her boots made almost no sound on the mat. She ignored the weapons first. Ignored the target boards. Ignored the training notes pinned near the far wall. She moved toward one wooden post. It was worn smooth in places. Not decoratively. Not for effect. By repetition. Thousands of strikes. Barehanded. Wrapped. Possibly gloved sometimes. Mostly not. The angle of impact repeated in clusters. Low. Mid. High. Left side heavier than right. Then corrected later. Someone had trained here badly at first. Then better. Then obsessively. Ace placed her fingertips lightly against the wood. For a moment she said nothing. Mai watched her. The city outside throbbed through the walls. Distant bass. Traffic. A siren somewhere far enough away to be someone else's problem. Shammy's gaze moved around the room with unusual care. "This one is quiet," she said. Ace nodded once. "Yeah." Mai stepped closer. "What do you see?" Ace did not answer right away. That was answer enough. She moved to the floor marks. Crouched. Touched one groove. A blade had bitten here. Not the bad display swords from the front. Something maintained. Something used. A practice weapon first. Later steel. "He started sloppy," Ace said at last. Mai came beside her. "Red Death?" "Probably." "How can you tell?" Ace pointed to the post. "Early strikes were too high. Too much shoulder. He was trying to be fast." She shifted her finger. "Then he started using hips." Another mark. "Then feet." Another. "Then he learned not to hit where he wanted the target to be." She looked toward the far side of the room. "He learned to hit where it was going." No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Shammy said, softer: "That sounds like respect." Ace's expression tightened. "Observation." "Mm." Mai smiled faintly. "That means yes." Ace stood. "Don't start." "I did not." "You did internally." "I maintain full innocence." "You never maintain innocence." Mai turned that calm silver-blue look on her. "Do you want me to?" That landed. Briefly. Very briefly. Ace stared at her. Shammy's smile widened slowly. The room, despite itself, warmed. Ace looked away first. "Focus." Mai's smile did not move. "I am focused." "You're smug." "I can multitask." Shammy made that soft little laugh again, the one that felt like a pressure valve opening somewhere above the ribs. Ace muttered something under her breath and went to the training notes. Most were useless. Schedules. Rotations. Names. But a few sheets had handwritten corrections in red ink. Not inspirational slogans. Not theatrical nonsense. Practical notes. Too wide. Drop shoulder. Recover faster. Don't admire the cut. Stop posing. That last one made Ace pause. She read it again. Stop posing. Then looked back toward the first hall. The polished swords. The tier board. The luxury uniforms. The ridiculous fog canisters. Ace's face changed in a way so small most people would have missed it. Mai did not. "He knows," Mai said. Ace nodded. "He knows they're bad." "Then why keep them?" "Money," Shammy said. Mai glanced at her. Shammy was looking at the training room, not the front hall. "Not just for himself." Ace followed that thought. "Equipment. Space. Access." "Protection," Mai added. "Corporate names give him insulation." "Idiots with family lawyers," Ace said. "Useful idiots," Mai corrected. Ace did not like that. Not because it was wrong. Because it was right. Red Death was beginning to take shape. Not as a clown. Not as a warlord either. Something smaller. More human. And sometimes that was messier. A man surrounded by people pretending to train, while he trained for real. A man using their money, their access, their boredom. Maybe he had convinced himself he was giving them discipline. Maybe he was. Maybe that was part of the problem. Mai photographed the notes. Shammy moved to the cracked mirror. Her reflection split oddly across the damaged surface, silver-white hair and blue eyes fractured into thin, uneven planes. Ace saw Mai watching Shammy. Then Mai noticed Ace watching her. A quiet little circuit completed between them. No words. No scene. Just three people in a room built for loneliness, and the easy fact that none of them stood alone inside it. Ace looked away before the warmth settled too heavily. She still had a job to do. The far door led to a small office. Inside were old storage cabinets, a basic terminal, and a wall map marked with locations across Japantown, Charter Hill, and parts of Watson. Mai went directly to the terminal. "Air-gapped." Ace leaned against the doorframe. "Good or bad?" "Annoying." "That's bad." "For them, eventually." Shammy examined the wall map. Colored pins. Red thread. Several safehouse-style locations. Training rotations. Potential targets. Potential allies. No planned attacks. Not yet. Again, that phrase. Not yet. Mai opened the terminal casing. Ace watched the hallway. Shammy continued studying the map. After a while, she tapped one location. "This is close to Wakako's routes." Mai looked up. Ace did too. Shammy pointed to another. "And this." Mai's expression sharpened. "Those are not random." "No." Ace crossed the room. The marks formed a loose crescent around several of Wakako's quieter business veins. Not direct attacks. Not even surveillance, necessarily. But proximity. Pressure without action. A person could claim coincidence. A stupid person would. Wakako had not. Ace understood now. Red Death had not done anything yet. That was exactly why Wakako wanted him removed. Because once he did, the cost would multiply. Mai extracted the drive. "Got it." "Anything useful?" "Enough." Shammy was still staring at the map. The air around her had gone faintly still. "He's building confidence," she said. Ace looked at the pins. "His or theirs?" Shammy's eyes flicked toward her. "Yes." That was not comforting. They left the office. On the way back through the second training hall, Ace paused one last time near the worn post. She should have kept walking. It was just wood. Just marks. Just evidence. Instead she touched it again. Briefly. Mai did not comment. Neither did Shammy. Ace exhaled through her nose. "Someone here worked for this." The words landed quietly. No joke attached. No edge. Just truth. Then she turned and walked out. Behind them, the ridiculous front hall waited with its polished swords and Platinum Shadows and decorative arrogance. Ace barely looked at it. The story had already moved past them. --- ## Chapter 3 — The Man in Red Mai broke the drive before it broke itself. That was the simplest way to describe what happened. The terminal Red Death used was not sophisticated in the usual Night City sense. It had no glittering ICE architecture, no corporate-grade adaptive defense, no elegant kill-switch built by someone with too much funding and too little conscience. It was simpler than that. Cruder. Meaner. A homemade dead-man routine tied into a storage partition that would have wiped the whole unit if someone tried to pull data too quickly. Mai noticed it because the timing was wrong. That was how she explained it. Ace understood approximately half of the explanation and chose to respect the rest from a safe distance. "So," Ace said while Mai worked at the Safehouse table, "how bad?" Mai did not look up. "Annoying." "You said that earlier." "It remains accurate." Shammy was sitting backward on one of the kitchen chairs, chin resting on folded arms, watching the little dance of Mai's fingers across connected devices. Her hair lifted and settled with faint static each time one of the cooling units clicked too sharply. "Annoying but useful?" she asked. Mai's mouth tilted. "Possibly." Ace leaned beside her. Not close enough to interfere. Close enough that Mai's shoulder brushed her ribs when she shifted. Mai noticed. Did not move away. "You're hovering." "I'm supervising." "You are not qualified." "I'm moral support." "You are distracting." Ace smiled faintly. "Those are different?" Shammy made a quiet sound into her arms. Mai's eyes stayed on the data stream. "Sometimes." The answer hung there for just a second too long. Ace looked down at her. Mai continued working with absolute innocence. Shammy lifted her head enough to see Ace's face and immediately smiled wider. Ace pointed at her without looking. "Don't." "I did not say anything." "You breathed smugly." "I have excellent lungs." Mai finally extracted the first usable file. "Focus." "She started it." "I did not." "You did atmospherically." Shammy considered this. "Maybe." Mai opened the map data. The room shifted back into work. Several routes lit up across the table display. Not direct lines. Not attack paths. Training circuits. Observation loops. Practice movements designed to pass close to Wakako's interests without touching them. A delivery corridor. A discreet gambling operation. Two small businesses under her protection. A medical contact she used when she did not want anyone asking why someone needed quiet stitching and no police report. Ace leaned closer. "They're walking around her veins." Mai nodded. "Close enough to learn the rhythm." "Not close enough to start a fight." "Exactly." Shammy's smile faded. "That is patient." "Red Death is patient," Mai said. Ace stared at the lines. The rich kids were not patient. That much had been obvious from the front hall. People who created ranks like Platinum Shadow were not patient. They wanted theater. They wanted recognition. They wanted the feeling of danger without the boring parts. But the routes were not theatrical. They were dull. Repetitive. Useful. The kind of work someone did when no one was watching. Ace exhaled once. "Where are they tonight?" Mai pulled up a schedule file. "Small group. Rooftop movement drill. Charter Hill edge, close to Japantown border." "Red Death?" Mai's eyes moved. "Unknown." Ace smiled again. Smaller this time. "Let's make it known." --- The rooftop was pretending to be abandoned. It was not especially convincing. Night City had a specific smell when people used a place regularly but wanted others to think they did not. Replaced locks. Clean corners. Scuff marks in patterns. Cheap cameras hidden badly by people who had bought expensive ones. Ace, Mai, and Shammy crossed the adjacent building first. No dramatic approach. No skylight entry. No speech about shadows. Just a service stairwell, a maintenance walkway, and a gap between buildings narrow enough that Ace did not bother slowing down. She landed silently on the opposite ledge. Mai followed by grapnel line. Shammy stepped after them with a little too much grace for gravity to feel respected. Ace glanced up at her. "Show-off." Shammy looked down from her full height with serene innocence. "I am tall." "That is not an explanation." "It explains many things." "Not that." "Some things." Mai clipped the line away. "We are on a roof conducting surveillance." Ace nodded. "Yes." "Could you flirt more quietly?" Ace blinked. Shammy smiled. "Was that a request or criticism?" Mai walked past them. "Both." The target roof lay one building over. Below, the street hummed in layers. Charter Hill polish on one side. Japantown teeth on the other. Money and survival meeting in the middle and pretending they had nothing to do with each other. Seven figures in black moved across the rooftop. Not badly. That was the irritating part. They had athletic control. Basic footwork. Some blade discipline. Enough training to be dangerous to civilians and overconfident against professionals. Ace watched for thirty seconds. "Rich." Mai did not ask how she knew. The way they moved answered it. People who had learned violence as necessity did not pause after a good sequence to check whether someone had noticed. These did. One of them performed a rolling recovery that would have looked impressive on camera and suicidal under pressure. Ace winced. "That hurt me personally." "He seemed proud," Shammy said. "That makes it worse." Then the air changed. Not dramatically. No thunder. No music cue. Just a shift. The seven figures stopped almost at once. Someone had opened the roof access door. A man in red stepped out. Not bright red. Not cartoon red. Dark red cloth layered under segmented armor, matte enough to drink light instead of reflect it. His mask covered the lower half of his face. The upper half remained visible: tired eyes, focused, older than the others by enough years to matter. He carried one sword. Only one. Ace liked him slightly more for that alone. Red Death crossed the rooftop without haste. Nobody spoke. One of the black-clad students straightened too quickly. Another lowered his head. A third tried to look calm and failed. Red Death stopped near the one who had rolled badly. He did not shout. He did not posture. He did not deliver a speech. He only said something Ace could not hear from this distance. The student answered. Red Death struck him. Not hard. Open hand. Shoulder, not face. A correction, not punishment. Then he demonstrated the recovery himself. No flourish. No wasted arc. Down. Roll. Rise. Blade line protected. Throat covered. Feet placed for immediate movement. Ace stopped breathing for half a second. Mai noticed. Shammy noticed Mai noticing. Again. "That's better," Ace murmured. "How much better?" Mai asked quietly. Ace watched Red Death repeat the motion once. Then make the student do it again. This time the student improved by perhaps ten percent. Red Death corrected him again. Patiently. Without embarrassment. Without cruelty. Ace's expression shifted. "Real." Mai looked at the rooftop. "Red Death?" "The training." Shammy's voice lowered. "He is not performing." "No." That was the point. The students were performing. Red Death was working. And that made him dangerous in a way the rest of them were not. Not because he was strong enough. Because he knew there was such a thing as enough practice, and he had clearly never reached a point where he believed he had finished. Almost. Almost. Ace watched him correct another student. There. The flaw. Small, but there. He had trained himself past most amateurs and straight into the territory where the world became cruel. Good enough to beat everyone around him. Not good enough to understand what he had not yet seen. That was a dangerous place to stop learning. The rooftop drill continued for another twelve minutes. Then Red Death looked directly at their building. Ace did not move. Mai went still. Shammy smiled faintly. "So he noticed." Ace's smile answered before her mouth did. "Good." Red Death turned away from his students. He spoke one word. The black-clad figures froze. Then withdrew in silence toward the far side of the rooftop. Some did it well. Most did it like people trying to look like they were doing it well. Red Death remained. Alone. Then he raised his voice. "You can come out." Ace looked at Mai. Mai looked at Ace. Shammy leaned closer between them. "He sounds polite." Ace was already standing. "Don't make it weird." "Too late," Mai said. Ace jumped the gap. She landed on the target roof lightly enough that one of the students near the far edge visibly reconsidered several life choices. Mai arrived a moment later. Shammy last, not because she was slow, but because she understood exactly what it did to people when she unfolded to her full height after landing. The students stared. At Ace first. Then Mai. Then Shammy. Then back to Ace, because Ace was smallest and somehow still the obvious problem. Red Death looked only at Ace. That was another point in his favor. "You are Wakako's answer." Ace tilted her head. "Maybe." "She sends three." "She likes certainty." His eyes moved briefly to Mai. Then Shammy. Not dismissing them. Measuring. Wrongly, maybe. But not stupidly. "I have no quarrel with her." Mai answered before Ace could. "You are mapping her operations." "Observing territory is not a quarrel." "In Night City, it is a preface." Red Death's gaze returned to Ace. "You are the blade." Ace smiled. "Depends on the day." One of the students shifted behind him. Nervous. Too loud. Red Death did not look back. "Leave." The student hesitated. Red Death's voice sharpened by half an inch. "All of you." That did it. The black-clad figures withdrew through separate exits, rooftop routes, and far-side cables. A few tried to do so with dignity. Night City denied them. One nearly tripped on a ventilation pipe. Another caught his sleeve on a railing. Ace pretended not to see. Mostly. When the last had gone, the rooftop felt strangely honest. Three against one. But not really. Mai and Shammy stood back without needing to be told. Red Death noticed that too. "You intend to fight me alone." Ace shrugged. "Do you intend to make that a problem?" "No." "Good." He studied her. "You are not what I expected." "People say that." "They underestimate you." "People do that too." Red Death drew his sword. Slowly. Not theatrically. The blade was clean. Well cared for. Used. Ace's expression settled into something quieter. "How long?" He understood. "Twelve years." "Formal instruction?" "Some." "After that?" "Myself." Ace nodded once. That answer explained many things. The discipline. The gaps. The strange mixture of competence and blind spots. A self-taught man could become dangerous. Very dangerous. But the teacher inside his own skull was limited by what he had survived. Ace drew one katana. Only one. Red Death noticed. "Is that insult?" "No." "Then why?" "Because you're not stupid." His eyes narrowed. Ace rolled her shoulder once. "And because I want to see." Something crossed his face then. Not pride. Not exactly. Recognition, maybe. Or hunger. A man who had trained too long among people who did not understand the work finally seeing someone who did. That almost made the whole thing sad. Almost. Mai's voice came quietly through Ace's comm. "Careful." Ace did not look back. "Always." Shammy's voice followed. "Lie." Ace smiled. "Mostly." Red Death stepped into stance. Ace answered. For three seconds, neither moved. The city moved around them instead. Traffic. Neon. Distant sirens. The endless electric animal breath of Night City. Then Red Death attacked. Fast. Clean. Better than Ace had expected. Not enough. But better. Steel met emerald-frequency edge with a sound that was not quite metal. Ace gave ground. Once. Twice. Not because she had to. Because she chose to. Red Death followed with disciplined pressure, blade line tight, footwork controlled, no show for the vanished students, no wasted theatrics for the rooftop. Good. Ace's smile appeared slowly. Very slowly. There it was. The point of the job. Not killing. Not winning. This. A few clean seconds where nothing was complicated. Where no one screamed inside her head. Where no ancient fragment whispered under the bones of the world. Where no corpo laboratory tried to turn pain into product. Just distance. Timing. Breath. Steel. Red Death cut high. Ace slipped under. He recovered faster than most would have. Good again. She tapped his guard with the flat of her blade. Not hard. Enough to tell him she had been there. His eyes changed. He understood. Not everything. But something. For a minute, he fought better. That was the part Ace respected most. Some people collapsed when they realized the gap. Red Death adjusted. He shortened his motion. Protected his centerline. Stopped trying to win with the first clean opening. Ace let him. Mai watched in silence. Shammy's presence behind her became very still. The fight crossed the roof in a tight spiral. Red Death pressed. Ace yielded. Red Death cut. Ace turned it aside. Red Death tried a low feint that would have taken an average opponent's knee. Ace stepped through it and placed her elbow gently against his ribs. Stopped there. Did not break them. Red Death froze. Ace stepped back. "Again." He stared at her. For the first time, anger touched him. Not rage. Wounded pride. That was where the danger lived. Not in the sword. In the belief around it. He came again. Harder. Worse. Ace saw it immediately. "Don't." He did not listen. The next exchange lasted five seconds. Ace knocked the blade off-line, stepped inside the range where his sword mattered less, struck his wrist, trapped his elbow, drove a knee into his thigh, and put him on his back hard enough that the roof itself seemed to grunt. Red Death tried to move. Ace's blade was at his throat. Not cutting. Yet. Silence returned. For a moment his breathing was the loudest thing in the world. Ace looked down at him. "You trained." His eyes burned. "Yes." "Enough to become good." His jaw tightened. "Yes." Ace's voice lowered. "Not enough to mistake good for untouchable." That landed worse than the fall. Mai saw it. Shammy saw it. Red Death saw it too. Maybe he had known already. Maybe that was why the words hurt. Ace stepped back. Removed the blade. "It is done." For one breath, it could have ended there. It almost did. Red Death lay still. His sword several feet away. His students gone. His pride broken but his life intact. A better man might have stayed down. A smarter one certainly would have. But Red Death had spent too many years becoming the only real thing in a room full of pretending people. He could not survive being reduced in front of no audience at all. His hand moved. Not toward the sword. Toward the sleeve. Mai's eyes sharpened. "Ace." Ace already knew. The hidden blade snapped free. Red Death surged up with a short, brutal thrust meant for the gap below Ace's ribs. Good angle. Good timing. A real kill attempt. Ace's expression did not change. That was the worst part. She stepped inside it. Too close for the blade to finish its thought. Her left hand caught his wrist. Her right struck once. Krav Maga. Not elegant. Not ceremonial. Not something Red Death's twelve years had prepared his pride to accept as the end of a duel. The heel of her palm drove under his jaw and turned his head at the wrong angle while her knee destroyed his balance. His body followed the physics before his mind caught up. Ace completed the motion. Fast. Brutal. Final. Red Death hit the rooftop and did not rise. The hidden blade clattered away. For a few seconds nobody spoke. Ace stood over him. Breathing calm. Not happy. Not angry. Just done. Mai approached first. Shammy behind her. The air around Shammy moved once, soft and unhappy. Ace looked at the body. Then she said, quietly: "You should have stayed down." No one answered. Below, somewhere in the building, one of the fleeing students screamed. Not in pain. In panic. Then another. Then the rooftop access door slammed open and shut twice in rapid succession as several black-clad figures ran directly into one another trying to escape in opposite directions. Ace slowly looked toward the noise. Mai closed her eyes. Shammy's mouth twitched. The remaining ninjas fled. All of them. No final stand. No revenge oath. No dramatic charge in defense of their fallen leader. Just expensive boots, badly secured weapons, and pure rich-kid survival instinct scattering into Night City. One of them dropped a smoke bomb. It rolled three feet. Clicked. Produced a sad little puff of purple vapor. Ace stared at it. Then at Mai. Then at Shammy. Shammy lost the fight first. She laughed. Mai followed despite herself. Ace looked back down at Red Death. The humor faded from her face just a little. Not gone. Adjusted. "He was better than them." Mai nodded. "Yes." Shammy's voice softened. "He knew that." Ace sheathed her blade. "That was the problem." The purple smoke continued to leak pathetically across the rooftop. Night City screamed below. The job was done. --- ## Chapter 4 — Appreciation The remaining members of the clan dissolved faster than anyone expected. Which was saying something. Because nobody had expected much. The first twenty-four hours produced three resignations, four deleted social media accounts, two public statements claiming the organization had always been "primarily a cultural appreciation group," and one very expensive lawyer attempting to convince everyone involved that his client had merely attended a few recreational fitness classes. Mai archived the statement. Mostly because it was funny. Ace read half of it. Then stopped. "I think my brain is trying to protect itself." "It is." "Good." Shammy was still laughing about the smoke bomb. That particular memory had become worse with age. Not better. Every time someone mentioned it, another detail surfaced. The noise. The panic. The tiny purple cloud rolling sadly across the rooftop. The complete absence of ninja dignity. Ace had eventually accepted that this would follow her forever. Night City was cruel that way. --- Three days later they returned to Wakako. The old fixer listened without interruption. No questions. No dramatic reactions. No visible satisfaction. Just tea. Silence. Attention. The complete report took less than ten minutes. Red Death. The training locations. The maps. The remaining members. The collapse. The end. When Mai finished, Wakako sat quietly for several seconds. Then: "And Red Death?" Ace answered. "Dead." A single nod. Nothing more. No celebration. No approval. No regret. Just acceptance. A fact entering the ledger. Then Wakako reached for her agent. The transfer arrived immediately. Mai glanced down. Then looked again. Her eyes narrowed slightly. The amount was significantly larger than the contracted payment. Not absurdly larger. Not enough to be an error. Enough to be deliberate. "That exceeds the contract." Wakako's attention remained on her tea. "Yes." Silence. Mai waited. Ace knew better. If Wakako wanted to explain something, she would. If she did not, trying to force it was like trying to interrogate a mountain. Eventually the old fixer spoke. "Some problems become expensive if left alone." That was all. No further explanation. None was necessary. Mai understood immediately. So did Ace. The issue had never been the rich children. It had never been the costumes. Or the swords. Or the ridiculous rankings. The issue had been momentum. Red Death had been building something. Perhaps he did not even fully understand what. Perhaps he did. Either way, Wakako had seen the trajectory. And decided to cut it short. Ace found herself thinking briefly about the training hall. The worn post. The cracked mirror. The handwritten corrections. Stop posing. A small part of her regretted how it ended. A much larger part understood why. Night City rarely offered alternatives. Wakako set her cup down. The conversation was over. Not because she said so. Because the room said so. The old fixer had already moved on to the next problem. The next calculation. The next future inconvenience. As they stood to leave, Wakako spoke one final time. "Enjoy your success." The three of them stopped. Ace blinked. Mai looked mildly surprised. Shammy looked openly suspicious. Wakako's expression did not change. "That sounded almost pleasant," Ace said. "I assure you it was not." "Ah." "Much better." They left before the city collapsed from the anomaly of Wakako attempting encouragement. --- Outside, the afternoon air felt lighter. Mai checked the account transfer again. Then again. Then one final time. Ace noticed. "Still there?" "Yes." "How much?" Mai showed her. Ace stared. "That's a lot." "Yes." "How much did Dino give us again?" Mai named the figure. Ace compared the two. Then looked up. Then back down. Then up again. "Huh." Shammy leaned over Mai's shoulder. Her eyes widened. "That's definitely a lot." Mai locked the display. For several seconds nobody spoke. Then Shammy smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. Ace recognized the smile immediately. "No." Mai looked at Shammy. Then at Ace. Then back at Shammy. The smile spread. Ace immediately became concerned. "Absolutely not." "We have money." "We always have money." "We have extra money." "That's different?" "Very." Ace pointed accusingly. "You're planning something." Shammy's smile widened. Mai's expression became entirely too innocent. Which was somehow worse. Ace looked between them. One. Then the other. Then back. The terrible realization arrived. "Oh no." "Oh yes." "Mai." "Yes?" "Help." "I am helping." "No you're not." Mai folded her arms. "We are going shopping." Ace stared. The city continued around them. Traffic. Advertisements. Noise. Life. None of it mattered. Because she had just realized something horrifying. The mission was over. Nobody was trying to kill them. Nobody was summoning anything. Nobody needed saving. And both of her partners had access to money. A dangerous amount of money. Ace looked upward toward the Night City skyline. "Red Death." Mai sighed. Shammy laughed. Ace continued. "You won after all." And for the first time in a very long while— the thought of the evening ahead was more intimidating than the mission itself. --- ## Epilogue — Spend The Damn Money Mai waited until they were two blocks away from Wakako’s place before she checked the account again. Then she checked the other transfer. Then she checked both together. Ace noticed the third glance. “You keep looking at that like it’s going to bite you.” “It might,” Mai said. “Money doesn’t bite.” “In Night City, that is an optimistic position.” Shammy leaned over from behind Mai with the lazy grace of a weather system deciding to become curious. “How much is it?” Mai angled the display. Shammy looked. Stopped walking. Ace took three more steps before realizing the tall atmospheric disaster was no longer behind them. She turned back. “What?” Shammy pointed at the number. Ace came over, leaned in, and read it. A slow silence unfolded. Then Ace looked up toward the afternoon glare caught between the towers. “Huh.” Mai locked the display. “That is your entire comment?” “It’s a flexible comment.” “Dino’s bonus was already considerable,” Mai said. “Wakako’s is almost insulting in the opposite direction.” “Opposite of insulting?” “Deliberately excessive.” Ace considered that. “Can’t insult me with money.” “You say that now.” Shammy smiled. Ace saw it and immediately disliked the shape of the future. “No.” Mai looked at her. Ace pointed at both of them. “No.” Shammy’s smile widened. Mai’s expression became calm, which was worse because Mai was most dangerous when she looked like she had already completed the argument internally and was merely waiting for reality to catch up. Ace took one step back. “We are not doing whatever that face means.” “We are going shopping,” Mai said. Ace stared. “Why?” “Because we have money.” “We always have money.” “We have extra money.” “That is just money with ego.” Shammy laughed. Mai slipped her agent into her pocket and started walking. Ace did not move. “Mai.” “Yes?” “I own clothes.” “That is a generous description.” “I own functional clothes.” “That is a more accurate description.” “My clothes work.” “For terrifying people in alleys, yes.” Ace looked offended. “That is a valid category.” Shammy came up beside her and bent slightly, silver-white hair slipping over one shoulder, blue eyes far too bright with amusement. “Come on. Let us see what happens when Ace meets retail.” “I have met retail.” “Did you threaten it?” “Only once.” Mai did not look back. “Three times.” “Those were separate circumstances.” “Two of them involved boots.” “Bad boots deserve consequences.” Shammy touched Ace lightly between the shoulder blades and nudged her forward. Ace allowed it with the expression of a woman being led toward execution by people she unfortunately loved. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if anyone suggests something with decorative straps, I’m leaving.” Mai glanced back over her shoulder. “Noted.” Shammy’s smile turned bright enough to qualify as weather. Ace narrowed her eyes. “That was not innocent.” “No,” Shammy agreed. “It was not.” And somehow that was the first moment the afternoon truly changed. Not into something dramatic. Not into softness. Just into that familiar gravitational pull between the three of them, the one that appeared whenever the world finally stopped demanding blood for a few minutes. Ace walked between them. Mai on her left. Shammy on her right, absurdly tall, effortless, impossible to ignore. The city kept screaming around them. For once, none of them answered. --- The shopping district sat in one of those carefully curated Night City zones where poverty had been pushed three streets away and replaced with glass, chrome, climate control, and security drones pretending they did not have live ammunition. Ace hated it immediately. Everything smelled too clean. Music drifted out of storefronts calibrated to make people feel rich enough to become stupid. Holo-models spun above displays wearing jackets that cost more than some vehicles. Ace stopped in front of one window. A mannequin wore black tactical streetwear with silver buckles, low-profile armor threading, and a ridiculous asymmetrical collar. Ace stared. Mai watched her. Shammy watched Mai watching her. “What?” Ace asked. “You like it,” Mai said. “I do not.” “You stopped.” “It offended me.” “You are still looking.” “I am studying the offense.” Shammy leaned closer to the display. “The collar is dramatic.” “It’s stupid.” “It would look good on you.” Ace turned her head slowly. Shammy met her gaze with complete serenity. Mai said nothing. That made it worse. Ace looked back at the jacket. Then at Mai. Then at Shammy. “No.” Twenty minutes later, Ace owned the jacket. She refused to admit this represented defeat. “It has practical lining,” she said. Mai accepted the bag from the clerk. “Of course.” “And the collar is less stupid in person.” “Naturally.” “And it was on sale.” “It was absolutely not on sale.” Ace pointed at her. “Unhelpful.” Shammy walked behind Ace and lightly lifted the back of the collar with two fingers. Ace went still for half a heartbeat. Not much. Just enough. Mai noticed. Shammy noticed that Mai noticed. Ace noticed both of them noticing. The clerk, blessedly intelligent, pretended to adjust a display on the other side of the store. Shammy let the collar fall. “Good fit.” Ace did not turn around. “You’re enjoying this too much.” “Yes.” “No denial?” “I am learning from you.” Mai’s mouth twitched. Ace looked at her. “You too?” Mai gave the bag a small, tidy fold and handed it to Ace. “I am only observing.” “Liar.” “Yes.” That should not have made Ace smile. It did anyway. --- Mai’s turn was worse. Ace had assumed Mai would be efficient. Mai was efficient in combat. Efficient in analysis. Efficient in choosing safe routes, dead drops, information structures, weapon maintenance protocols, emergency medkits, grocery lists, and ways to make Ace stop doing something unreasonable without saying “stop doing that” out loud. Clothes were apparently different. Mai did not browse widely. She browsed precisely. Which somehow made it more dangerous. She ignored twenty stores without slowing down, then walked into one narrow boutique tucked between two expensive cyberware jewelers and selected three pieces within four minutes. Ace was suspicious. Shammy was delighted. The first jacket was pale gray, almost white in certain angles, long enough to move when Mai walked but cut close enough that it did not hide her shape. Mai tried it on. Ace looked. Looked away. Too late. Shammy made a soft sound. Ace did not look at her. “Don’t.” “I said nothing.” “You breathed.” “I am allowed.” “You breathed with commentary.” Mai adjusted one cuff. “Does it work?” Ace answered too quickly. “Yes.” Shammy’s smile became dangerous. Mai’s eyes flicked up in the mirror. “Only yes?” Ace crossed her arms. “It works very well.” “Functional?” “Extremely.” “Practical?” Ace’s gaze betrayed her by moving once down the line of the jacket and back up. “Depends what you plan to do in it.” There was a pause. A tiny one. Then Shammy laughed. Mai closed her eyes for exactly one second. Ace realized what she had said. “Oh, shut up.” “No one said anything,” Mai said. “You both said everything.” Shammy leaned against the wall, laughter still trembling in her shoulders. “That was not even our fault.” “It was absolutely your fault.” “You spoke.” “You caused conditions.” Mai removed the jacket with great dignity. Unfortunately, dignity did not survive the way she said: “I believe I’ll take it.” Ace stared very hard at a shelf of gloves. Shammy wiped one eye. The clerk, another intelligent survivor of Night City retail, offered sparkling water and did not ask questions. --- Shammy’s purchase nearly caused a diplomatic incident with physics. The store specialized in formalwear for people who wanted to look like they had never once been inconvenienced by normal human circumstances. Most of the clothes were useless. Beautiful, but useless. Shammy moved through the place like she belonged to the concept of height more than to any normal category of customer. The staff reacted to her in phases. First awe. Then calculation. Then fear. Then professional excitement. Finding clothing for someone nearly two meters tall with a body that seemed to have been assembled from storm pressure and bad decisions was apparently either a nightmare or a calling. Ace sat on a low display bench and watched three clerks orbit Shammy like moons around a dangerous planet. Mai sat beside her. Close enough that their shoulders touched. No reason. No comment. Just contact. Ace let her weight shift slightly toward her. Mai did not move away. “You know,” Ace said quietly, “we could leave her here.” Mai watched Shammy examine a long dark-blue coat with faint metallic threading. “She would find us.” “Eventually.” “Within minutes.” “She might get distracted.” “By herself?” Ace considered Shammy in the mirror. The coat fell around her like evening light after a thunderstorm. Ace stopped considering tactical escape routes. Mai noticed. Again. Because Mai noticed everything. “She looks good,” Mai said. Ace swallowed half a reply and replaced it with: “Yes.” Mai leaned a fraction closer. “You had another word ready.” “No.” “You did.” “It was classified.” “By whom?” “Me.” “Poorly.” Shammy turned at that exact moment. The coat moved with her. Not swished. That would have been too ordinary. It followed, as if the air had agreed to help. Ace’s brain briefly misplaced an entire sentence. Shammy saw it. Of course she saw it. She smiled. Not softly. Not shyly. Just directly. Ace narrowed her eyes. “That coat is smug.” Mai nodded. “It suits her.” “Unfair.” Shammy walked toward them. The clerks watched like witnesses to a weather event. “Well?” Mai looked her up and down. Slowly enough to be honest. Ace looked at Mai looking. Then looked at Shammy. Then decided the ceiling had excellent architectural value. Shammy stopped in front of them. “Ace?” “No.” “That was not an answer.” “It was a defensive maneuver.” “Against the coat?” “Against both of you.” Mai’s smile appeared like a blade drawn silently. “You are doing very badly.” Ace looked at her. “You are enjoying that.” “Yes.” Shammy placed one hand lightly on Ace’s head as she passed. Ace froze. Mai pressed her lips together. Shammy continued toward the counter. “I’ll take it.” Ace muttered, “That coat is a hostile actor.” Mai said, “You like hostile actors.” Ace looked at her. Mai held the gaze for one beat too long. Then looked away with perfect innocence. Ace exhaled through her nose. “I am surrounded.” “Yes,” Mai said. Shammy turned back from the counter. “And you keep choosing it.” That one landed. Not romantically. Not dramatically. Just true enough to shut Ace up for six full seconds. A personal record. --- By early evening the bags had multiplied. Ace had stopped protesting. Not because she approved. Because resistance had proven strategically useless. They ate at a street-level restaurant with real stools, fake plants, excellent noodles, and a cook who recognized Mai from an old job and immediately decided not to ask why she arrived with a short woman who looked like compressed violence and a tall woman who looked like a lightning strike had learned manners. Food helped. Food always helped. Ace ate like someone refueling a machine that had been unfairly made human. Mai ate neatly. Shammy ate with pleased curiosity and kept stealing pieces from both bowls because nobody could stop her and everyone pretended to be annoyed. “You have your own,” Ace said. “Yes.” “That means stop taking mine.” “No.” Mai slid one piece from her bowl to Ace’s. Ace looked at it. Then at Mai. Mai continued eating. Shammy watched the exchange. Ace picked up the offered piece and ate it without comment. Shammy smiled into her noodles. Ace pointed a chopstick at her. “If you say anything, I’m throwing you into traffic.” “We are indoors.” “I’ll improvise.” Mai did not look up. “She would.” “I know,” Shammy said happily. The conversation drifted. Red Death came up once. Only once. Ace mentioned the training hall. The worn post. The handwritten note. Stop posing. Mai listened. Shammy listened. Ace’s voice stayed level. “He was better than the room he built.” Mai nodded. “And still built it.” “Yeah.” That was all. No speech. No grief. No lesson. Just one clean acknowledgment of a man who had worked hard, reached his limit, and refused to accept it. Then Shammy stole another piece of Ace’s food. Ace immediately tried to stab her chopsticks. Shammy moved the bowl. Mai caught Ace’s wrist before the entire table became a small war. The touch lasted longer than necessary. Ace looked at Mai’s fingers around her wrist. Mai looked back. Shammy looked between them and said, “If you two are done negotiating the noodle border.” Ace pulled her hand free. “You started this.” “I did,” Shammy agreed. That made it worse. After dinner, they wandered without a plan. Which was dangerous. Night City rewarded plans poorly, but it punished aimless happiness with creativity. That was how Shammy found the liquor store. It was tucked between a boutique weapon-polish shop and a place that appeared to sell luxury pet cybernetics. The sign read: Flaming Moon Spirits Ace stopped. Mai stopped because Ace stopped. Shammy stopped because the window display had caught her attention. Bottles stood under soft amber light. Tall ones. Round ones. Black glass. Green glass. Labels in languages Ace did not know and several she suspected had been invented specifically to justify price tags. Shammy was already at the window. “Oh.” Mai’s attention sharpened. “Shammy.” “There is a very interesting bottle.” “That sentence is usually expensive.” Shammy pointed. In the center of the display sat a dark glass bottle with a long neck, sealed in black wax and wrapped with a thin band of copper-colored metal. The label was matte cream, simple and smug. DAR-ES-SALAAM RESERVE Limited Cask Release Fortified Red Wine Twenty-Four Years Ace read the price. Then read it again. Then took one step closer, because surely distance had distorted the number. It had not. “No.” Shammy tilted her head. “It looks good.” “It looks criminal.” Mai read the smaller print. “It is strong.” “How strong?” Mai told her. Ace looked personally offended. “That’s not wine. That’s a strategic mistake.” Shammy’s eyes brightened. “I am curious.” Ace and Mai said, simultaneously: “No.” Shammy entered the store. Ace looked at Mai. Mai looked at Ace. Ace said, “She heard us, right?” “Yes.” “She understood?” “Yes.” “She is doing it anyway?” “Yes.” Ace sighed. “Tall menace.” They followed. The interior smelled of polished wood, climate control, and financial irresponsibility. A clerk appeared with the quiet confidence of someone trained to sell extremely expensive mistakes to people who would later claim they had meant to buy them all along. Shammy asked two questions. The clerk answered both. Mai asked five more. The clerk answered those more carefully. Ace asked one. “Will it hurt us?” The clerk paused. “Not if consumed responsibly.” Ace pointed at him. “That was not a no.” “It was not intended to be.” Shammy smiled. “I like him.” Mai sighed. The bottle was purchased. Ace watched the transaction complete. Something inside her mourned. “That was rent.” “We do not pay rent,” Mai said. “That was someone’s rent.” Shammy accepted the bottle like a sacred artifact. “Then someone should have bought better wine.” Ace stared at her. Mai’s shoulders moved once. A suppressed laugh. Ace looked betrayed. “You too?” Mai turned away. “I said nothing.” “You shook.” “I am allowed to have internal weather.” Shammy hugged the bottle lightly against her coat. “I like that phrase.” Ace looked at both of them. Then at the bottle. Then back at both of them. “This is how people die in luxury districts.” Mai touched her arm as they stepped back onto the street. “Come on.” The touch was brief. Casual. Completely unnecessary. Ace followed anyway. --- Safehouse received them like it had been waiting. Low light. Locked doors. Familiar air. The city beyond the walls remained ugly, loud, hungry. Inside, for once, there was no immediate mess to clean. No blood. No damaged gear. No emergency debrief. No half-burned ritual diagram on the floor. Just bags, food containers, tired feet, and one extremely expensive bottle of fortified wine sitting on the kitchen counter like it expected applause. Ace stared at it while removing her boots. Mai unpacked purchases with methodical care. Shammy hunted down glasses. “Small glasses,” Mai said. Shammy paused. “How small?” “Smaller than your curiosity.” “That is very small.” “No. Your curiosity is enormous. The glasses should not be.” Ace pointed. “Listen to Mai.” Shammy looked at Ace. “You are only agreeing because you are afraid of the bottle.” “Yes.” Mai found three appropriate glasses and placed them on the counter. Shammy cut the wax seal with ceremonial seriousness. Ace watched with suspicion. The cork came free. The smell arrived first. Deep. Dark fruit. Wood. Spice. Something warm and old enough that even Ace stopped looking offended. Shammy’s expression changed. Mai’s did too. Ace leaned closer despite herself. “Oh.” Shammy smiled. “See?” “I said oh. Not apology.” Mai poured carefully. Very carefully. The wine moved like liquid garnet in the glass. Ace accepted hers and sniffed. Then glanced at Mai. “Is it supposed to smell expensive?” “Yes.” “Annoying.” They drank. The first sip silenced all three of them. It was not sweet. Not exactly. It was rich, warm, layered, heavy enough to feel like it had opinions. Ace looked down at the glass. Then at Shammy. “Fine.” Shammy’s smile widened. “Fine?” “It’s good.” Mai took another small sip. “It is extremely good.” Ace frowned at her glass. “I hate when expensive things justify themselves.” The evening loosened from there. Not quickly. Not recklessly. No one tried to drink fast. The bottle did not invite that. It demanded time, small portions, and the kind of poor judgment that wore expensive shoes and spoke in a calm voice. They sat around the low table. Bags scattered nearby. The new jacket draped over the couch. Shammy’s coat hung over a chair like a weather front taking a break. Mai’s pale jacket rested folded beside her, too elegant for the Safehouse and somehow already belonging there. Ace sat on the floor with her back against the couch, glass balanced on one knee. Mai sat on the couch behind her, one hand occasionally dropping to Ace’s shoulder or hair without ceremony. Shammy occupied the opposite side of the table with unfair sprawl, long legs folded, hair loose, electric-blue eyes bright with the dangerous contentment of someone whose curiosity had been rewarded. They talked about nothing. Which meant everything. The ridiculous fog canister. The Platinum Shadow rank. The store clerk who had looked at Shammy like she was a once-in-a-career tailoring challenge. The liquor clerk’s carefully diplomatic refusal to say “this will hurt tomorrow.” Ace recounted one of the fleeing “ninjas” catching his sleeve on the rooftop railing. She mimed the exact tug. Mai tried not to laugh. Failed. Shammy did not even try. “It was the little pause,” Ace said. “He thought about saving the exit. Then he thought about dignity. Then he chose neither.” Mai covered her mouth with her glass hand. “Do not make me spill this.” “That would be tragic.” “It would be expensive.” Shammy lifted her own glass. “Some problems become expensive if left alone.” Ace pointed at her. “No Wakako voice.” “I did not do the voice.” “You absolutely did the voice.” Mai took a sip. “She did the rhythm.” “Thank you,” Ace said. Shammy looked offended. “Betrayal.” Mai’s hand settled in Ace’s hair, fingers sliding once through dark strands before she seemed to realize she was doing it. She did not stop. Ace did not comment. She did lean back a little. Only a little. Shammy saw. Her smile softened into something less sharp and more pleased. Then she ruined it. “Careful, Mai. If you keep that up she’ll start purring.” Ace did not move. Mai’s fingers paused. Three seconds of silence. Then Ace said, perfectly flat: “I bite.” Shammy’s eyes widened with immediate delight. Mai shut her eyes. Ace realized the problem half a second late. “Oh, come on.” Shammy folded forward laughing. Mai’s shoulders shook. Ace looked between them. “It was a threat.” “Of course,” Mai said, voice strained with laughter. “A normal threat.” “Entirely.” Shammy tried to speak, failed, and waved one hand helplessly. Ace drank. “That was your fault.” Mai opened one eye. “My hand was in your hair.” “Yes.” “That is not traditionally an attack.” “It created circumstances.” Shammy recovered enough to say, “Hostile circumstances?” Ace pointed at her glass. “Drink your expensive mistake.” They did. The subject changed to food. Then to clothes. Then to whether Ace’s new jacket was tactical, dramatic, or both. Ace insisted it was tactical. Mai said the collar disagreed. Shammy said the collar had ambitions. Ace said the collar was classified. Mai said that was not how clothing worked. Ace said Night City had stranger things. Shammy leaned over the table, eyes bright. “If the collar is classified, who has clearance?” Mai answered too quickly. “I do.” Ace turned her head slowly. Mai stared into her glass. A beat. Another. Shammy made a sound that was not language. Ace looked at Mai. Mai looked back with the calm dignity of someone who had stepped into her own trap and chosen to remain standing there. Ace’s mouth twitched. “You said that very confidently.” Mai lifted her glass. “I stand by my security assessment.” Shammy dissolved again. Ace laughed too this time. She could not help it. The laughter came easier than it had in weeks. Maybe longer. Not sharp. Not defensive. Not weaponized. Just laughter. The kind that loosened the ribs and made the room feel warmer than it was. Mai watched her for half a second longer than necessary. Shammy noticed. Ace noticed Shammy noticing. No one said anything. For once, even Shammy let the moment breathe. The wine lowered the guardrails by degrees. Not enough to make anyone foolish. Enough to make normal restraint arrive late. Mai explained, at one point, the difference between three types of knot used in field restraints, because the conversation had somehow moved from shopping bags to cargo security to whether Ace trusted anyone else to tie down equipment in the van. Shammy listened with scholarly intensity. Ace listened for exactly twenty seconds before her expression shifted. Mai continued for another sentence. Then stopped. Shammy looked at Ace. Ace looked at Mai. Mai replayed her own words internally. Color did not rise to her face. Mai was too composed for that. But her eyes narrowed by one precise millimeter. “You are both twelve.” Ace’s grin appeared slowly. “You said it.” “I was discussing equipment.” “Sure.” “I was.” Shammy nodded solemnly. “Very important equipment.” Mai pointed at her. “You are worse.” “I am taller,” Shammy said. “That is not a defense.” “It has worked before.” Ace tipped her glass toward Mai. “For the record, your explanation was very clear.” Mai looked at her. Ace held the gaze. Too long. Not sweet. Not shy. Just open enough that the air tightened for one second. Then Shammy said, “She means educational.” Ace choked on the wine. Mai finally laughed properly. Not a small sound. Not restrained. A full laugh, sudden and bright enough that Ace stared at her like she had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. Shammy saw that too. Of course she did. “There,” Shammy said softly. Ace looked away. “What?” “Nothing.” “Liar.” “Yes.” The conversation moved again. That was the rhythm of the night. A normal topic. A badly placed word. A look. A pause. Laughter. Escape. Nothing pursued. Nothing built. No one made it into something larger than it was. That was why it worked. They were not trying to prove anything. Not desire. Not love. Not commitment. Not safety. Those were already there, heavy and unspoken and ordinary as breath. The wine only made the edges visible. At some point Shammy stretched across the floor to reach a bag and knocked one of the empty shopping boxes sideways. Ace caught it with her foot. Mai said, “Impressive.” Ace glanced up. “My footwork is excellent.” Shammy, still half stretched across the rug, said, “We noticed.” The silence after that lasted exactly long enough for all three of them to understand the sentence from at least two directions. Then Mai made the mistake of inhaling at the wrong time and nearly lost her drink. Ace laughed so hard she had to set her glass down. Shammy rolled onto her back, one arm over her face, helpless. “It was a normal statement,” she protested. “No it was not,” Mai managed. “It began that way.” “That is not enough.” Ace wiped her eyes. “I hate both of you.” “No,” Shammy said from the floor. Ace did not answer. Because that one did not need answering. Later, the bottle was lighter. Not empty yet. But lighter than Mai approved of. She read the back label more carefully under the kitchen light. Then went very still. Ace was on the couch now, sideways, legs folded, new jacket nearby, hair messier than usual. Shammy occupied the floor again because she had decided the rug was “more honest than the chair,” which nobody had successfully interpreted. Mai read the label again. “Shammy.” “Yes?” “What is the recommended serving?” Shammy looked up. “Small?” Mai turned the bottle. “Twenty-five milliliters.” Ace blinked. “That’s a sip.” “That is not a sip.” “It is barely commitment.” Mai looked at the three glasses. Then at the bottle. Then back at Shammy. Shammy made an expression of serene academic interest. “Fascinating.” “No.” “Informative?” “Also no.” Ace leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. “We have been responsible.” Mai looked at her. “Technically.” “That sounds bad.” “It is not ideal.” Shammy sat up. “I feel fine.” “That sentence,” Mai said, “has killed more people than most weapons.” Ace opened one eye. “The clerk warned us.” “The clerk implied.” “He knew.” “They always know,” Shammy said. Then all three started laughing again, because the idea of a liquor clerk as some quiet guardian of future hangovers was apparently the funniest thing in the room for at least a minute. The night thinned slowly. Not dramatically. One glass remained unfinished. Bags were moved aside. The table was cleared enough that no one would trip and die in an embarrassingly domestic way. Mai folded the new clothes because Mai could not leave order alone even when slightly warm-eyed from very expensive wine. Shammy helped by handing her the wrong items deliberately. Ace helped by sitting there and criticizing both of them. At some point Mai flicked a shirt at her face. Ace caught it. “Attack?” “Consequence.” Ace looked at the shirt. Then at Mai. “You are becoming violent.” Mai’s expression stayed calm. “You inspire growth.” Shammy laughed from the kitchen. Ace looked far too pleased with that. Finally the Safehouse settled. Lights low. City outside still ugly. Still loud. Still hungry. But farther away than usual. Ace stood near the couch and realized Mai had drifted close to her without either of them deciding it. Shammy came up behind Mai, tall and warm and bright in the low light, and rested her chin lightly against the top of Mai’s head for half a second purely because she could. Mai made a small sound of protest. Not convincing. Ace looked at them. Mai looked back. Shammy’s eyes met Ace’s over Mai’s silver hair. There it was. Not romance. Not softness. Not a scene. Just the old, wordless pull. The fact of them. Ace reached out and tugged lightly at the front of Mai’s new jacket. Mai stepped closer because she wanted to. Shammy’s hand settled against Ace’s shoulder because the space between them had become too empty not to fill. No one said anything clever. For once. Then Ace murmured, “Tomorrow is going to be annoying.” Mai’s mouth curved. “Probably.” Shammy closed her eyes. “Worth it.” Ace considered the answer. Then nodded. “Yeah.” The night did not need anything else from them. Night City could wait. Wakako could wait. Dino could wait. Panam and the Badlands and whatever new mess waited beyond the next turn of the road could wait. For once, no alarm cut through the room. No call came in. No one bled. No one vanished. No one asked the Triad to become anything sharper than human. So they did not. The night belonged to the Triad. --- Morning arrived like a corporate punishment clause. Ace opened her eyes. This was a mistake. She closed them again. For several seconds, she remained completely still. Careful. Professional. A highly trained combatant assessing battlefield conditions. The battlefield was the inside of her skull. The enemy had artillery. Somewhere nearby, something clicked. Possibly the building. Possibly a coffee machine. Possibly the universe loading a weapon. Ace spoke into the pillow. “Aaaaaaargh!” From the kitchen, Mai said, far too clearly: “Good morning.” Ace did not open her eyes. “No.” A pause. Then Shammy, from somewhere lower than expected: “The ceiling is moving.” Mai answered, “The ceiling is not moving.” “It knows what it did.” Ace rolled very slowly onto her back. The room remained mostly where it belonged. Mostly. She considered this a personal betrayal. Mai appeared in the doorway holding coffee. She looked composed. Almost. Her hair was too loose. Her eyes were slightly narrowed. Her entire body carried the controlled dignity of a woman refusing to admit that light had become personally offensive. Ace pointed weakly. “You look awful.” Mai looked at her over the cup. “You look dead.” “Good. Then lower your voice out of respect.” Shammy appeared behind Mai. She was wearing one of the oversized Safehouse shirts and an expression of profound atmospheric grievance. Her hair had become a silver-white storm system with no government oversight. Ace stared. Shammy stared back. Mai looked between them. Then all three started laughing. Carefully. Because laughing hurt. Ace immediately regretted it. “Stop,” she said, laughing anyway. “Stop. My head.” “You started,” Mai said. “No, her hair started.” Shammy touched it. Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” Mai handed Ace coffee. Ace accepted it like medicine from a suspicious god. The first sip helped. The second helped more. The third reminded her that existence could, with sufficient caffeine, be negotiated. They ended up around the kitchen table. Slowly. With unnecessary caution. Mai placed the Dar-Es-Salaam bottle in the center like evidence. There was perhaps one proper serving left. All three stared at it. Shammy said, “We were responsible.” Mai picked up the bottle and turned the label toward them. “Recommended serving: twenty-five milliliters.” Ace looked at the bottle. Looked at the glasses drying near the sink. Looked at the bottle again. “Right.” Shammy leaned her elbow on the table and lowered her forehead into her hand. “That explains the refrigerator.” Mai sipped coffee. “The refrigerator was not involved.” “It was spiritually involved.” Ace pointed toward the kitchen appliance without looking at it. “It knows what it did.” Mai closed her eyes. “Do not start.” Ace looked at Shammy. Shammy looked at Ace. The laugh came back. This time all three tried to suppress it. This made it worse. For almost a minute, the Safehouse contained nothing but coffee, pain, and three people failing to survive their own amusement. Eventually, Mai recovered first. “We are not buying another bottle.” Ace nodded. “Never.” Shammy nodded with equal solemnity. “Absolutely not.” Silence. A long one. Then Ace said, “It was good though.” Mai stared into her coffee. “Yes.” Shammy sighed. “It was very good.” Another silence. Ace closed her eyes. “We are absolutely buying another bottle.” “Not today,” Mai said. “No. Not today.” “Not this week.” Ace opened one eye. “Define week.” Mai pointed at her. “No.” Shammy smiled very carefully, because smiling too hard still seemed dangerous. “Next time we use smaller glasses.” Mai said, “Next time we read the label first.” Ace said, “Next time we do both and still make the same mistake.” Nobody argued. Because that was almost certainly true. Outside, Night City resumed its usual work of devouring the unwary. Inside, the Triad sat around the kitchen table in yesterday’s clothes, drinking coffee, sore-headed and alive, surrounded by shopping bags, unfinished jokes, and the warm wreckage of an evening that had not tried to become important. That was why it had been. Ace lifted her cup. “To expensive problems.” Mai lifted hers. “To reading labels.” Shammy lifted hers last. “To curiosity.” Ace and Mai looked at her. Shammy smiled. “What?” Ace groaned. Mai sighed. And somewhere in the Safehouse, quiet and ordinary and almost impossible, the day began.