Night City didn’t really do “quiet,” but the Afterlife got close enough that people pretended. Low amber light. Glass sweating in slow intervals. Music kept just under the point where it would start interfering with conversation. The kind of place where deals happened without ever sounding like deals. Triad had a corner table. Not claimed. Just… left alone. Ace sat sideways in her chair, one boot hooked over the rung, posture loose in that way that wasn’t actually relaxed. Her katanas weren’t visible, but the faint emerald hum under the noise floor made it clear they hadn’t gone anywhere. Violet eyes flicked across the room, not tracking—just registering. Mai sat opposite, spine straight without effort, silver hair pulled back just enough to stay out of her line of sight. One hand around a glass she hadn’t really touched. She was watching the room too, but differently—mapping, not scanning. Shammy leaned back between them, chair tilted just slightly past what physics should have allowed. Long legs stretched out, crossing the space without asking permission. The air around her carried that barely-there static, like the moment before rain decides whether it’s coming down or not. No job. No pressure. Just… presence. “That’s two hours,” Mai said, glancing at nothing in particular. “Without incident.” Ace shrugged. “You’re counting?” “I always am.” Shammy smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. “You both are.” Ace snorted. “I’m not counting anything.” Mai didn’t look at her. “You are. You just don’t call it that.” Ace opened her mouth, then didn’t bother finishing whatever that was going to be. Instead, she reached for the glass in front of her, took a slow sip, eyes drifting back to the room. That was when it shifted. Not loudly. Not obviously. Just— a vector. Someone approaching. Male. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean lines, but not corporate. The kind of person who knew how to move through the Afterlife without getting stopped, which already said more than anything else. He slowed near the table. Not hesitating. Not committing. Just… calibrating. Ace noticed him first. Of course she did. Her gaze landed, stayed for exactly one beat too long to be casual. Then moved. Didn’t react. Didn’t need to. Mai noticed the noticing. Shammy noticed the air. The man stepped in. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. Direct. No preamble. He was looking at Ace. Only Ace. Ace tilted her head slightly, expression neutral. “Then you weren’t looking very hard.” There it was—just enough edge to test. He smiled, unfazed. “Maybe. Or maybe I was looking for something else.” “Found it?” “Seems like it.” Mai didn’t move. Not physically. But something in her posture locked a fraction tighter. Shammy’s chair tilted forward a degree, almost imperceptible. The static in the air softened, then sharpened again—like a breath taken and held. Ace didn’t glance at either of them. Didn’t need to. “What do you want?” she asked. “No job,” he said quickly. “Relax. I’m not here to hire you.” “Good.” A beat. “Just wanted to talk.” Ace’s brow lifted a fraction. “That’s new.” He shrugged. “Night City’s full of surprises.” “Not really.” That got a small laugh out of him. Mai finally spoke. Not to him. “To Ace.” “You know him?” Ace shook her head. “No.” The man leaned a little closer—not invading, but definitely entering the space. “Name’s Kade,” he offered. Ace didn’t respond. Silence stretched just enough to become a choice. “…Ace,” he said after a moment, like he’d filled in the blank himself. That was the second shift. Small. Precise. Mai’s fingers tightened around her glass. Shammy’s gaze lifted fully now, electric blue settling on Kade for the first time. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just… aware. Kade didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. “Mind if I sit?” he asked. Ace shrugged again. “You’re already here.” Not permission. Not denial. He took it anyway. Pulled a chair just slightly too close. Close enough to register. Not close enough to call out. Mai didn’t look at him. She was watching Ace. Specifically, the micro-adjustments: - shoulder angle - line of sight - how much space she allowed Shammy watched the table. The way the air moved across it. The pressure lines. “Not often I see someone like you not working,” Kade said casually. Ace leaned back a fraction, matching his proximity without acknowledging it. “You see a lot of people like me?” “No.” “Then you’re guessing.” “Educated guess.” “Bad one.” He smiled again. “We’ll see.” Mai spoke again. Still not to him. “You’re blocking the line.” Kade blinked. “Sorry?” “My line of sight,” Mai clarified calmly. “To the entrance.” He shifted slightly, instinctively complying. “Right. Didn’t realize—” “I know.” Shammy’s lips curved, just slightly. Kade glanced at her then, finally registering the third presence at the table. His gaze lingered a fraction too long—confusion, maybe curiosity—but it didn’t stick. His attention snapped back to Ace. Always back to Ace. That was the third shift. Not louder. Just heavier. Ace noticed. Of course she did. And something in her posture changed. Not defensive. Not aggressive. Just— claimed. “So,” Kade said, settling in like this was normal now, “you always sit here, or am I just lucky tonight?” Ace didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for her glass again. Slow. Deliberate. Bought herself a second she didn’t need. Then: “Luck’s not a factor.” “Everything’s a factor.” “Not that one.” He leaned in just a fraction more. “You sure?” Mai set her glass down. Soft. Precise. Too precise. “Yes,” she said. Flat. Final. Kade glanced at her, mildly surprised. “Didn’t ask you.” “I answered anyway.” Silence. Not long. Just enough. Shammy exhaled softly, and the air followed. The temperature shifted half a degree. Kade’s shoulders eased without him realizing why. Ace watched that happen. Filed it. Didn’t comment. “Look,” Kade said after a moment, recalibrating, “I’m not trying to step on anything here.” “You are,” Ace said. Not angry. Just accurate. He held her gaze. “Doesn’t seem like you mind.” That was the breakpoint. Not an explosion. Just— a line crossed. Ace leaned forward. Fast enough that the movement registered before the intent. Close now. Closer than he’d set the distance. “You’re misreading the situation,” she said quietly. No edge. No threat. Which made it worse. Kade didn’t back off. Didn’t lean in either. Just held. “Then correct me.” A beat. Mai stood. Smooth. Controlled. “Enough.” One word. Not loud. Absolute. Kade’s attention snapped to her fully for the first time. “What—” “You’ve gathered enough data,” Mai continued. “Your conclusions are incorrect. Continuing this interaction will not improve them.” “…that’s one way to put it.” “It’s the correct one.” Shammy rose last. Slow. Uncoiled. And suddenly the space felt… smaller. Not physically. But undeniably. Kade looked between them now. Finally seeing the shape of it. Not a triangle. Not separate. One system. “…right,” he said, a small, almost amused breath leaving him. “Okay. Yeah. I’m clearly missing something here.” Ace didn’t move. Didn’t look away. “Yeah,” she said. “You always this welcoming?” “No.” That got another small laugh, but it didn’t carry the same weight as before. Kade pushed his chair back. Stood. Hands up, easy. “No harm meant.” Mai nodded once. “Noted.” Shammy tilted her head slightly. “You learned quickly.” He smirked faintly. “Fast learner.” His gaze flicked back to Ace one last time. Something different there now. Not interest. Understanding. “Good night,” he said. “Mm.” And then he was gone. Just like that. The vector collapsed. The pressure redistributed. Silence settled back in. Not empty. Reset. Mai sat down first. Picked up her glass. Didn’t drink. Ace leaned back again, posture loosening—almost. Shammy sank into her chair, legs stretching out again, reclaiming the space. A few seconds passed. Then: “That was inefficient,” Mai said. Ace snorted. “He was in the way.” Shammy smiled, slow and quiet. “You’re both terrible at pretending.” Ace didn’t deny it. Mai didn’t either. Another pause. Then Ace reached out—brief, casual—and hooked two fingers into the fabric at Mai’s sleeve, just enough to pull her half an inch closer. Not a statement. Not a claim. Just— alignment. Shammy’s foot brushed lightly against both of them under the table, static flickering once in the air before settling. Equilibrium restored. Outside, Night City kept moving like nothing had happened. Inside— nothing had. And everything had. At the same time.