Rain dragged neon into long bleeding streaks across the Kabuki pavement. Not dramatic rain. Night City rarely bothered with drama anymore. Just the constant wet hiss of a city trying to wash itself clean and failing every single night. Ace walked half a step ahead of the others, hood down despite the weather, black hair already sticking unevenly against her cheeks. Emerald reflections from passing holo-signs slid across the twin katana handles at her back. The job had gone well. Which meant everyone was suspicious. Not paranoid. Experienced. Behind her, Mai scanned a cracked data shard while walking without ever looking at the ground. Shammy drifted beside her with that impossible storm-carried ease that made crowded sidewalks unconsciously part around her. “Too smooth,” Mai said. Ace grunted agreement. “Client paid immediately,” Mai continued. “No double-layered objective. No hidden retrieval clause. No secondary team. No betrayal attempt.” Shammy tilted her head upward, letting rain collect briefly on her eyelashes. “The city is trying to make us lower our guard.” “Correct,” Mai said. Ace stopped walking. Both of them nearly walked into her. Mai looked up instantly. “Contact?” “No.” Shammy narrowed her eyes. “You froze.” Ace stared across the street. A tiny import kiosk sat wedged between a cyberware repair booth and a noodle counter venting artificial pork steam into the rain. Half the lights were dead. One holo-panel flickered badly enough to look possessed. Most of the sign was in Japanese. One corner was not. --- ## KOUVOLAN LAKRITSI ### 170 YEARS --- The logo had survived compression artifacts, rain damage, corporate redesigns, and at least three different display technologies. Barely. But it was there. Ace did not move. Mai followed her gaze. “…what am I looking at?” Ace pointed. Mai looked again. Then once more, slower. “Oh no.” Shammy leaned slightly between them. “What is Kouvolan?” Ace turned toward her with the expression of someone being asked what oxygen was. “Finnish salmiakki.” “That explains nothing.” “It’s…” Ace paused. That alone was alarming. Mai crossed her arms. “Ace is emotionally buffering. This is serious.” Ace ignored her. “It’s strong.” “Define strong.” Ace looked at Mai. Mai sighed immediately. “I hate that look because it means I’m about to become collateral.” Ace pointed toward the noodle stand nearby where industrial degreaser sat beside cleaning supplies. “Closer to that than candy.” Shammy blinked once. “…people eat this voluntarily?” “Finns do.” “That does not answer whether they should.” Ace was already crossing the street. Mai pinched the bridge of her nose. “This,” she said quietly to Shammy, “is how cult behavior begins.” Shammy smiled faintly and followed. The kiosk door chimed weakly as they entered. Warm air hit them first. Then the smell. Coffee. Dust. Old plastic. Artificial cinnamon. And somewhere underneath it— Salted licorice. Ace stopped so abruptly her boots squeaked against the worn floor. Behind the counter sat an elderly woman with chrome fingers and silver hair tied into a mechanical-looking braid. One eye was organic. The other hummed softly with antique optics. She looked up from a tablet. Saw Ace. Saw where Ace was looking. Then nodded once with the weary dignity of someone who had seen addiction before. “Last box,” she said. Ace walked faster. Mai whispered: “Oh, this is catastrophic.” On the highest shelf behind the counter sat a black tin box with faded gold trim. KOUVOLAN LAKRITSI 170TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION The corner of the package had been repaired with transparent tape older than some governments. Ace stared at it like a religious artifact. The old woman leaned back slightly. “Came through Rotterdam freight thirty-one years ago,” she said. “Never opened.” Mai blinked. “Thirty-one?” “Most people here think salmiakki is industrial coolant.” “They are not entirely wrong,” Mai muttered. Shammy tilted her head toward the shelf. “The air around Ace changed.” Ace spoke without looking away from the box. “How much?” The woman named a number. Mai actually inhaled sharply. “Ace.” Ace did not blink. Mai lowered her voice. “That is more than ammunition costs.” Ace reached for her credchip. Mai grabbed her wrist. “No.” Ace slowly looked down at her hand being restrained. Then at Mai. “This matters.” “It absolutely does not.” “You don’t understand.” “That sentence has historically preceded disasters.” The old woman watched all three with obvious amusement. “You from Finland?” she asked Ace. Ace hesitated. “…been there.” “Ah.” Something softened in the woman’s expression. “Then you know.” Mai pointed immediately. “No. No enabling.” The woman ignored her completely. “First time I tasted proper salmiakki,” she said, “I thought someone hated me personally.” Shammy nodded solemnly. “That sounds consistent.” “But after the third piece…” The old woman smiled faintly. “You start missing it.” Ace whispered: “Yes.” Mai looked between them like she was witnessing the formation of a memetic hazard. “This is absurd.” The old woman finally took the tin down from the shelf. Even through old packaging the smell escaped faintly into the warm kiosk air. Salt. Licorice. Something mineral and sharp beneath it. A taste that did not belong in Night City. Ace took the box carefully. Not carefully for the money. Carefully the way people handled pieces of home after long enough away that “home” stopped meaning a place and started meaning sensory damage your nervous system refused to let go of. Shammy watched her closely then. The posture change. Tiny. Almost invisible. But real. Less compressed. Mai saw it too. Which was exactly why her resistance weakened immediately. “…fine,” Mai muttered. “But if this tastes like battery acid I reserve the right to say I told you so.” “You will.” “That confidence is upsetting.” The old woman snorted softly. “Open it here,” she said. “Otherwise she’ll spend the next two hours pretending she doesn’t care while protecting the box with lethal intent.” Ace said nothing. Which confirmed it. Mai leaned toward Shammy. “She’s right.” “I know.” Ace opened the tin. The smell intensified instantly. Even Mai physically recoiled half an inch. “Oh, that is violent.” Inside, black pieces of lacquered salmiakki sat perfectly arranged despite surviving decades of transport, storage, and apparently civilization itself. Ace picked one up first. No hesitation. Straight into her mouth. Then silence. Not dramatic silence. Not emotional speech silence. Just the tiny stillness of someone unexpectedly finding a piece of themselves they had not realized was missing. Shammy watched the atmosphere around Ace stabilize by microscopic degrees. Pressure easing. Breathing changing. Tiny. Real. Mai noticed too. And because Mai noticed it— she took one. Ace immediately looked at her with poorly concealed anticipation. Mai narrowed her eyes. “If I die, I’m haunting you.” “You already do.” Mai bit into the salmiakki. Her face remained perfectly neutral for approximately two seconds. Then: “…what the hell.” Shammy burst into laughter instantly. Not polite laughter. Actual laughter. Mai pointed accusingly at Ace while still trying to process the flavor. “It tastes like cursed seawater!” Ace was grinning now. Actually grinning. Rare enough that even the old woman behind the counter paused to appreciate it. “That means it’s good,” Ace said. “No, it absolutely does not.” Shammy carefully picked one up next. “You’re both terrible influences.” “Yes,” Ace and Mai answered simultaneously. Shammy placed the candy on her tongue. The air pressure in the kiosk changed slightly. Her eyes widened. “…oh.” Mai folded her arms immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You are not allowed to join her.” Shammy slowly looked toward Ace. Then toward the tin. Then back. “It crackles.” Ace nodded once like a veteran hearing another soldier describe artillery correctly. “Yeah.” The old woman laughed quietly behind the counter. Outside, Kabuki continued exactly as it always had. Sirens. Neon. Rain. Distant gunfire. A city eating itself alive one transaction at a time. Inside the tiny kiosk, three impossible women stood around a thirty-one-year-old tin of Finnish salmiakki like survivors sharing contraband from another universe. And for a few rare minutes— Night City stayed outside.