The safehouse had gone quiet in the wrong way. Not peaceful. Peaceful had a shape. A room could settle into it if people inside trusted the walls, the locks, the weather, and each other enough to stop listening for the next thing trying to become a problem. This was not that. This was quiet with teeth hidden under the tongue. Ace sat at the maintenance table with one katana across her lap and the other already cleaned twice past necessity. The blade did not need more oil. The edge did not need more inspection. The hilt wrap did not need the careful, exact pressure of her thumb moving along it for the sixth time. She did it anyway. The emerald hum beneath the steel stayed low and steady, but her shoulder did not. Every time her hand reached the same point near the guard, something in the line from her neck to her right wrist tightened by one invisible degree. Mai saw it. Of course Mai saw it. She was pretending not to because Ace was pretending the motion was maintenance. At the monitors, Mai sat too straight. One screen showed route chatter that had stopped being useful twenty minutes ago. Another displayed a silent status line from Kessa: **TOMAS STILL BREATHING. DO NOT MAKE ME SAY IT NICELY.** A third had already been closed twice and reopened because Mai’s hand did not quite believe the night had ended. Beside her left hand sat a cup of coffee gone cold enough to qualify as a small domestic insult. Shammy occupied the large chair in the corner. The chair had been reinforced after the third complaint. It still looked unsure about its career choices. She sat with one long leg drawn up, one arm draped over the backrest, white hair loose around her shoulders in a way that should have meant relaxed and did not. The air around her was too controlled. Not tense in a dramatic sense. No sparks, no ozone bite, no visible storm. Just the faint sense that the room’s pressure had been carefully arranged and was now being held that way by someone who had forgotten she was allowed to stop. The lamp over the kitchenette gave a tiny electrical buzz. It had been buzzing for six minutes. Shammy glanced at it once every thirty seconds. The lamp did not improve. Ace slid the cleaning cloth along the katana’s spine again. Mai said, “That section is clean.” Ace did not look up. “Yes.” “You have cleaned it four times.” “Now it’s cleaner.” “That is not how threshold states work.” “It is for knives.” Shammy lifted her head slightly. “Technically, at some point you are not cleaning the blade. You are threatening the concept of residue.” Ace paused. Looked at the katana. Then resumed. “Residue knows what it did.” Mai closed one of the monitors. Then opened another. Ace noticed. Said nothing. Shammy did. “You closed that.” “Yes.” “Then reopened a different one with the same information.” Mai’s eyes stayed on the screen. “Different arrangement.” “Does the arrangement help?” “No.” “Excellent. We are all behaving rationally.” The safehouse door chimed once. Not alarm. Visitor marker. Ace’s hand was on the katana before the sound died. Mai checked the feed. “Reyes.” Ace’s shoulders tightened. Not badly. Enough. Shammy noticed. Her mouth curved. Ace gave her a look. “Don’t.” “I have said nothing.” “You were going to.” “I was preparing atmosphere.” “Atmosphere can shut up.” Mai stood. “Let her in before the door decides this conversation is beneath it.” The lock cycled. Reyes entered carrying a paper bag in one hand and a sealed med-update strip in the other. Rain clung to her red hair in darkened strands, and the collar of her jacket was turned up against the weather. She looked tired in the practical way Night City made people tired: not broken, not dramatic, just done with everyone’s nonsense three hours ago and still required to continue. She stepped inside. Stopped. For three seconds, she said nothing. Her eyes moved from Ace at the maintenance table, to Mai standing too straight by the monitors, to Shammy arranged in the chair like a storm system that had agreed to furniture under protest. Reyes sighed. “You look like the kind of idiots who forget bodies exist.” Ace did not look up. “Bodies are inefficient.” Mai closed the monitor she had just reopened. “Incorrect.” Shammy lifted one hand. “I like mine.” Reyes pointed at her. “Then stop holding the room up with your spine.” Shammy blinked. Ace’s mouth moved by half a millimeter. Mai looked at Reyes with immediate, dangerous interest. Reyes noticed. “Oh, don’t start.” “You made an accurate structural observation,” Mai said. “I made a practical one.” “Same root system.” “Absolutely not.” Reyes set the paper bag on the counter and held up the med-strip. “Tomas update. Kessa wrote it, so half of it is threats against a blood pressure monitor, but the useful part is that he made it through another hour. Infection’s still ugly. Jaw interface stabilized. He asked for water and then passed out before insulting anyone.” Ace’s grip eased around the cloth. Mai took the strip. Read it once. Then again. “Good.” “Yeah,” Reyes said. “For Night City values of good.” Shammy lowered her leg from the chair. “Did Kessa threaten the monitor effectively?” “Probably. The spelling got worse near the end.” “Promising.” Reyes looked back at Ace. Her expression changed. Not soft. Sharper. She crossed the room without asking permission and stopped at the edge of the maintenance table. Ace looked up at last. “What?” Reyes pointed at her shoulder. “That.” Ace looked down as if expecting to find an enemy physically attached to her collarbone. “What?” “That line from your neck to your wrist. You’re carrying that one wrong.” Ace stared. “Which one?” Reyes’s eyes flicked to the katana, then to Ace’s hand, then back to her shoulder. “The part where you didn’t get to kill him.” The room went still. Not hostile. Accurate. Ace’s face did not change. Her shoulder did. Barely. Mai saw it. Shammy saw it. Reyes certainly saw it, because she made the kind of face people made when the evidence had the bad manners to confirm itself. Ace set the cloth down. “Not a problem.” “Sure.” “It isn’t.” “Then lift your right arm without compensating through the ribs.” Ace lifted her arm. The movement worked. That was not the same as clean. Reyes pointed. “There.” Ace lowered the arm. Mai’s eyes narrowed. “Scapular restriction. Upper trapezius overcompensation. Possibly forearm guarding.” Ace looked at her. “Traitor.” Mai did not blink. “Accurate.” Shammy leaned forward with sudden interest. “Are we diagnosing Ace by betrayal?” Reyes looked at Mai. “You know anatomy?” “Enough.” “Good. Then you know I’m right.” Ace stood. Her height did not make the motion imposing. The atmosphere did. Reyes did not step back. Good survival instinct or terrible one. With Reyes, often both. “You came here to deliver a med update,” Ace said. “And food,” Reyes said, nodding toward the bag. “Because someone told me you three forget bodies exist.” “Who?” Reyes looked around the room. “Evidence.” Shammy smiled. Mai asked, “You have bodywork training?” Ace looked at her. “Mai.” “She does,” Mai said. Reyes gave Mai a suspicious look. “I didn’t say that.” “You identified compensation lines without touching her. Your terms are informal but functionally precise. You are also standing like someone who has worked around injured people and expects them to lie.” Reyes stared. “Do you ever turn that off?” “No.” Ace said, “Unfortunately.” Shammy added, “We have tried blankets.” Mai ignored both of them. Reyes rubbed a hand over her face. “Fine. Yes. I trained. Actual massage therapy. Injury recovery. Muscle work. Not spa nonsense. Before the city decided I’d be more useful with a gun and worse sleep.” Ace folded her arms. Bad idea. Her shoulder complained. Reyes saw that too. Of course. “I can do one pass,” Reyes said. “No.” “Wasn’t only asking you.” Ace’s eyes narrowed. Mai said, “It may be useful.” “Of course you’d say that.” “It is structurally supported.” “Worse.” Shammy raised her hand again. “I am curious.” Reyes turned to her. “You are also next-level unreasonable as a project.” Shammy’s dignity rose like a flag. “I am elegantly proportioned.” “You are a cathedral with tension patterns.” Ace made a sound. Shammy looked wounded and pleased at the same time. Reyes pointed at all three of them. “Ground rules. This is muscle work. That’s it. No payment, no debt, no weird emotional contract, no ‘Reyes is now official maintenance anything.’ If someone says stop, I stop. If any of you make it strange, I leave.” Ace looked at Shammy. Shammy looked offended. “Why did you look at me?” “Tall interference risk.” Mai said, “The boundaries are clear.” Reyes nodded. “Good.” Ace said, “Still no.” Mai looked at her. Ace looked back. Mai did not say anything. She did not need to. That was worse. Ace’s mouth flattened. “Fine.” Reyes smiled. Ace pointed at her. “Do not look pleased.” “I’m looking professionally correct.” “I hate that more.” “Good. Start with boots off.” The safehouse did not have a massage table. It had a reinforced equipment bench, two folded blankets, a training mat, and enough stubborn practicality to make the whole thing work. Reyes arranged the setup without ceremony. No softened lights. No candles. No ridiculous music. Just a clean surface, a towel, space to move, and Mai standing nearby as if auditing safety through sheer posture. Ace lay down like she was preparing to resist interrogation. Face turned to one side. Arms placed too precisely. Back held too ready. Reyes stood beside her. “You know the goal is to relax, right?” “Yes.” “Your body disagrees.” “It does that.” Reyes placed both hands at Ace’s upper back with light, professional contact. Not pressure yet. Just assessment. Ace immediately went still in a way that made Reyes snort. “I’m not defusing a bomb.” Ace said, “Good.” “You’re acting like one.” “Better.” Reyes looked at Mai. “Is she always like this?” Mai considered. “No.” Ace lifted her head. Mai added, “Sometimes she is worse.” Ace put her head back down. Shammy’s laugh was soft and treacherous from the chair. Reyes began at the base of Ace’s neck, working slowly along muscle that should have moved and did not want to. Her pressure was direct, practical, and unromantic. No flourish. No coaxing. Just a skilled hand finding where stress had turned into a locked door and knocking until the hinge admitted it existed. Ace held out for thirty seconds. Then Reyes pressed into the line beside her right shoulder blade. Ace’s fingers flexed against the edge of the bench. Reyes paused. “Stop?” “No.” “Pain?” “Annoyance.” “Good. Breathe.” “I am.” “Barely.” Mai said, “Respiration is shallow.” Ace turned her head enough to glare. “Not helping.” Shammy, from the chair, said, “I am being very quiet.” “You are being quiet loudly.” “I have presence.” Reyes pressed again, slower this time, holding the point until the muscle stopped arguing quite as hard. Ace’s jaw tightened. Then released by one reluctant fraction. “There,” Reyes said. “Don’t narrate.” “I’m not narrating. I’m naming the problem.” “That is Mai’s disease.” Mai’s voice stayed dry. “It is not communicable.” Shammy murmured, “Debatable.” Reyes moved from the shoulder into the upper arm, then down toward the forearm. The pattern became obvious even before she said it: Ace had held a strike in her body and never finished it. The right wrist, the forearm, the shoulder, the rib line. A line of readiness with nowhere to go. Reyes worked the forearm carefully. “You were ready to cut something.” Ace said nothing. Reyes kept her voice even. “And you didn’t.” “Correct.” “Right call?” “Yes.” “Body didn’t get the memo.” Ace’s eyes stayed open, fixed on the far wall. For once, she had no useful dry answer. Mai did not fill the silence. Shammy did not soften it too quickly. Good. Reyes let the quiet do its work and kept her hands practical. Muscle. Tendon. Breath. Pressure. Release. Nothing more. After several minutes, Ace’s shoulder lowered. Not dramatically. Enough that everyone noticed and no one said so. Reyes finished by guiding Ace through one slow arm movement, checking range without forcing it. “Better,” she said. Ace sat up too fast, immediately regretted it, then pretended she did not. Reyes watched her. Ace rolled her shoulder once. The movement was cleaner. Her expression became irritated. “Functional.” Reyes’s smile appeared. Ace pointed at her again. “Do not.” “Professionally correct,” Reyes repeated. “I can still make coffee aggressively.” “I believe that.” Mai looked at Ace’s shoulder line. “Improvement is observable.” Ace looked at her. “Traitor twice.” “Yes.” Shammy unfolded from the chair. “My turn?” Mai said, “No. Mine.” Shammy stopped, delighted. “Oh.” Mai looked at her. “Do not make that sound.” “You volunteered.” “I accepted statistical inevitability.” Ace slid off the bench and reclaimed a seat, moving with less stiffness and more annoyance. That combination looked much healthier on her. Mai approached the improvised setup with the dignity of someone reporting to a medical assessment, not receiving one. Reyes watched her lie down. “You are already organizing yourself.” Mai’s face turned slightly toward her. “I am positioning efficiently.” “No. You’re arranging your body so it doesn’t inconvenience the room.” Ace leaned back in her chair. “Accurate.” Mai looked at her. Ace’s expression remained innocent by Ace standards, which meant not at all. Reyes began at Mai’s jawline and neck, light at first, then more specific. Mai’s tension did not fight like Ace’s. It calculated. It redistributed. It tried to be useful even under another person’s hands. Reyes noticed within seconds. “Stop helping.” “I am not.” “You are.” Mai paused. “How?” “You’re trying to predict where my hands need access and pre-adjusting.” Ace’s mouth curved. Shammy whispered, “Caught.” Mai closed her eyes. Reyes worked at the base of her skull, then down the neck into the upper back. The line there was not dramatic, but it was dense. Controlled. Layered. Not the held strike Ace had carried. Something colder and more continuous. A room in muscle form. “You don’t clench like you’re afraid,” Reyes said. Mai’s breathing changed. Barely. Ace went still. Shammy’s expression softened but did not become theatrical. Reyes continued, voice practical. “You clench like you’re responsible for the room surviving.” Mai did not answer. That was the answer. Reyes waited a second, then said, “Breathe before you analyze that.” Mai inhaled. It was not a deep, cinematic breath. It did not repair her. It simply reached farther than the previous one. Shammy’s presence around the room eased by a small degree, like air making space for the breath instead of supervising it. Ace watched Mai’s hand, resting near the edge of the bench. It had stopped holding itself ready. Reyes moved through the upper back with steady pressure, finding the places where thought had become posture. Mai tried once more to identify the method. “Is that cross-fiber—” “No,” Reyes said. Mai stopped. Ace looked delighted. Mai opened one eye. “You are enjoying this.” “Yes.” “Unkind.” “Correct.” Reyes worked another knot near the shoulder blade. Mai’s fingers flexed once. Reyes paused. “Too much?” “No.” “Good. Then stop trying to turn discomfort into data.” Mai was quiet for several seconds. Then, almost grudgingly, “Difficult.” “Yeah,” Reyes said. “That’s why I said it.” By the end, Mai sat up more slowly than she would have preferred and did not immediately reach for a monitor. That was more telling than a confession. Reyes folded the towel once. “Well?” Mai rotated her neck. Then her shoulders. “Technique is credible.” Ace said, “That’s her thank you.” Mai looked at her. Ace lifted both hands. “Accurate.” Shammy leaned forward. “Was it emotionally efficient?” Mai’s mouth threatened to move. “Do not invent categories.” “You do.” “Yes, but mine are correct.” Reyes looked between them. “You all know how impossible you are, right?” Ace said, “No.” Mai said, “Yes.” Shammy said, “Elegantly.” Reyes pointed at Shammy. “Your turn, cathedral.” Shammy rose. The chair looked relieved. Then concerned, because Shammy approached the mat with the solemnity of someone preparing to negotiate with gravity. Reyes studied her for a moment. Then another. Shammy put one hand to her chest. “I feel assessed.” “You are.” “Harshly?” “Accurately.” Mai said, “Do not take that personally.” Shammy looked down at her. “You just survived accuracy. You do not get to advise me.” Ace, now visibly looser and therefore twice as smug, said, “Big project.” Shammy pointed at her. “Small menace.” “Efficient design.” Reyes said, “Enough. Down.” Shammy arranged herself on the mat and bench combination with the kind of careful geometry that made clear most furniture was not designed by anyone who believed tall people were real. Reyes had to adjust the blanket twice and move the support under her shoulder. “This is absurd,” Reyes said. “I agree,” Shammy replied. “I have suffered architecture all my life.” “You suffer doorframes.” “Hostile architecture.” Ace said, “The doorframes suffer you.” “Victim-blaming.” Mai’s mouth curved by one millimeter. Then Reyes put her hands to Shammy’s upper back, and the jokes thinned. Not vanished. Thinned. Shammy’s tension was different. Reyes found that quickly and did not pretend otherwise. It was not a simple knot at the shoulder or a tight jaw. It was the whole structure trying to stay responsive to everything at once. Upper back, ribs, breath, neck, the line where posture became environmental habit. Reyes slowed down. “Okay,” she said under her breath. Shammy turned her head slightly. “Concerning okay or interesting okay?” “Yes.” Ace leaned forward. “Helpful.” Reyes ignored them. She changed her pressure. Broader. Slower. Less like unlocking a single point and more like convincing a weather front it did not need to brace against the ceiling. Shammy’s eyes half-closed. Then opened again, as if she had caught herself leaving a post. Reyes noticed. “Stop checking the room.” “I am not.” “You absolutely are.” Mai’s voice was quiet. “You are.” Shammy looked at her. Mai held her gaze. Not accusing. Recognizing. Shammy’s humor flickered, tried to stand, and sat back down. Reyes worked along the upper back and shoulder line. “You’re holding the room even when the room isn’t falling.” The lamp over the kitchenette stopped buzzing. No one spoke. The silence had no teeth now. Just weight. Shammy’s face turned toward the floor. “That feels rude to notice,” she said. Reyes’s voice stayed practical. “Most useful things are rude first.” Ace looked at Mai. Mai looked back. Neither said anything. Good. Reyes continued, broad pressure, steady rhythm, careful attention to breath. Shammy did not melt, did not transform, did not become fragile. She simply stopped doing one extra job the room had never assigned her. The change was subtle and enormous. The air loosened. The walls felt a fraction farther away. The safehouse did not become warm, exactly, but it stopped feeling held in place by willpower. Shammy exhaled. For once, the whole room seemed to exhale with her. Reyes stepped back at last, flexing her own hands. “I am billing the weather next time.” Shammy sat up slowly, hair falling around her shoulders in pale loose lines. She looked offended by how much better she felt. Ace recognized the expression. Mai probably catalogued it. Shammy lifted her chin. “I was not that tense.” Reyes stared at her. The lamp remained silent. Shammy glanced at it. “Unrelated.” Ace said, “Evidence disagrees.” Mai added, “Strongly.” Shammy looked at Reyes. “You have done something terrible.” “Muscle work.” “Terrible muscle work.” “Effective terrible muscle work.” Shammy considered that, then nodded with grave dignity. “Acceptable.” Reyes sat down on the edge of the couch and shook out her hands. “You three are a whole maintenance department pretending to be people.” Mai reached for her cold coffee, then stopped. Ace saw it. Good. Progress. Shammy stretched carefully. “We should classify Reyes as a structural maintenance asset.” “No,” Reyes said immediately. “But—” “No.” Mai said, “The classification would be imprecise.” Reyes pointed at Mai. “Thank you.” Mai continued, “External somatic reset consultant would be closer.” Reyes stared at her. Ace said, “Worse.” Shammy looked delighted. “Very official.” Reyes stood. “Absolutely not. I am not becoming your official anything.” “Good,” Ace said. Too fast. Reyes looked at her. Ace looked back. “What?” “That sounded almost disappointed.” “No.” Mai looked away. Shammy did not even try. Ace’s eyes narrowed. “Both of you are terrible.” “Yes,” Shammy said, pleased. Reyes’s expression softened for half a second, then she buried it under practicality. “You can ask again sometime. Asking is not a contract. Saying yes is not a contract. Saying no does not need a reason. Clear?” Mai nodded. “Clear.” Shammy nodded. “Clear.” Ace said, “Clear.” Reyes studied her. Ace held the look. Reyes nodded once. “Good.” For about three minutes, the safehouse held something close to actual rest. Not full peace. They were not built for miracles. Ace sat back at the maintenance table without touching the katana. Mai remained away from the monitors. Shammy had reclaimed the large chair and now looked, for the first time all night, like she was actually sitting in it rather than negotiating a ceasefire with it. Reyes picked up the paper bag and started unpacking food. Then Ace stood. Everyone looked at her. Reyes froze with a container in hand. “Where are you going?” Ace said, “Coffee.” Mai opened one eye. “Your nervous system just received maintenance.” “Then it can receive caffeine efficiently.” Shammy lifted her head from the chair back. “That sounds medically criminal.” Ace was already at the kitchenette. “You drink milk with coffee nearby. You don’t get to discuss crimes.” “It is called balance.” “It is called surrender.” Shammy placed one hand over her chest, offended with great dignity. “I am being attacked while relaxed.” “Good. Builds resilience.” Reyes looked at Mai. “Is this normal?” Mai closed her eye again. “Unfortunately, yes.” Ace filled the machine with the seriousness of a field engineer arming a charge. The coffee maker made its usual miserable choking sound. Shammy pointed at it. “That machine is asking for mercy.” Ace did not look back. “It knows what it did.” “You are bullying an appliance.” “It started.” Reyes stared at her. “Ace.” “What?” “You just got your shoulder to unclench for the first time tonight.” Ace paused with the coffee pot in hand. Only for a second. Then she said, “Good. Now I can hold the mug properly.” Shammy groaned. Mai’s mouth curved by one millimeter. Reyes shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You three are impossible.” Ace poured the first cup black. “No.” Shammy reached lazily toward the milk. Ace narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.” Shammy’s fingers stopped one centimeter from the carton. “This is oppression.” “This is coffee.” “This is extremism.” Mai, without opening her eyes, said, “Both statements can be true.” Ace considered that. Then slid the milk carton toward Shammy with two fingers. Shammy accepted it like a treaty. Reyes laughed once. Small. Tired. Real. And somehow, after bad leverage, debt hooks, broken handles, coerced rooms, and men who thought pressure existed only to move other people where they wanted them, the ugly little coffee machine choking its way through another pot became the most honest sound in the safehouse. Reyes left before the coffee was gone. She did not linger. Did not make the exit meaningful. Did not ask for promises or offer another session wrapped in softer words. She took an extra container of food because Shammy insisted and Ace pretended not to care and Mai labeled it “nutritional redistribution” with a straight face. At the door, Reyes looked back once. Ace stood with her black coffee. Mai sat less straight than before. Shammy held her milk-softened cup in both hands like a controversial peace settlement. The lamp did not buzz. Reyes nodded. “Try remembering the bodies before they start filing complaints.” Ace said, “No promises.” “Liar.” “Sometimes.” Reyes smiled and left. The door closed. The safehouse settled. Not perfectly. Not permanently. But enough. Mai finally drank from her cup, made a face, and looked at the cold coffee as if it had violated standards. Ace noticed. “Need fresh?” Mai hesitated. “Yes.” Shammy raised her cup. “I require diplomatic refill.” Ace looked at the milk. Then at Shammy. Then at the coffee pot. “Fine.” Shammy smiled. “Progress.” “No.” Mai’s smile appeared again, one millimeter and gone. Outside, Night City kept its pressure. It always would. It pressed through money, fear, debt, heat, hunger, reputation, and all the little handles people built into one another because they did not know how to touch anything without trying to own it. Inside, for one brief hour, pressure had done something else. Not fixed. Not saved. Released. Ace poured the coffee. Shammy added too much milk. Mai did not comment. That was how they knew she was tired. And the center held, loose-shouldered, under-caffeinated, and deeply offended by peace.