Reyes’ apartment sat on the third floor of a converted combat hotel in Watson, the kind of place that still smelled like gun oil and yesterday’s rain even after the landlord swapped the locks twice. The door opened before Ace could knock. Reyes stood there in a faded black tank and fatigue pants, red hair pulled back loose, one shoulder against the frame like she had been waiting exactly long enough to look casual. Her dark eyes scanned Ace once, top to bottom, the way she scanned every room that might still be hostile. “You look like you fought a building and the building won,” Reyes said. Ace stepped inside. The space was small, functional, temporary. Low couch against one wall, weapon-cleaning table pushed to the side, half-empty glass of something amber on the counter, boots kicked off near the door. A single lamp burned low, throwing long shadows. Rain tapped the window. Ace’s gaze flicked to the exits out of habit. Reyes noticed. “Done counting doors?” “No.” “Good. Means your head’s still attached.” Ace closed the door. The click sounded louder than it should have. Her Shadow Aura sat just under her skin, still half-awake from the ritual site. It made the lamp-shadow pull the wrong way across the floor for a second, the room briefly feeling smaller. Reyes crossed the short distance. She set her palm against Ace’s sternum, right over the worst of it. Solid. Callused. Heat bleeding through fabric. “Don’t make me guess where the worst of it is.” “You already guessed.” “Yeah. I’m showing off.” Ace exhaled. The contact gave the compression somewhere to go. Her Shadow Aura tightened once around the edges of the room. Then Reyes’ hand stayed heavier at her spine and the pressure lowered its teeth without vanishing. “Shirt,” Reyes said. Ace pulled the dark fabric over her head. Cool air hit skin. The Shadow Aura answered with emerald fault-lines under tension, shadows behaving incorrectly along the walls before settling. Reyes stepped in until their bodies pressed. One hand slid up Ace’s back, palm flat, mapping the knots stored there. The other stayed at her sternum, thumb brushing the hollow at the base of her throat in small circles. Ace’s hands came up. One hooked into the waistband of Reyes’ fatigue pants. The other traced Reyes’ shoulder, feeling muscle shift under skin. Reyes was warm. Scarred. Solid. Still armed in every way that mattered, even half-dressed. Reyes pressed her mouth to the side of Ace’s neck, not quite kissing yet, just resting there with her breath warm against Ace’s pulse. “Bad one,” Reyes said. Ace’s fingers tightened once at her waist. “Old. Symbolic. Tried to eat Mai first.” Reyes went still for half a second. Not fear. Calculation. “And you waited.” “Barely.” “Barely still counts.” The kiss came direct. Mouths meeting with heat, the faint edge of teeth when Ace nipped Reyes’ lower lip. Reyes made a low sound and deepened it. Tongues sliding. Breaths shared. Slow roll of hips. Reyes broke the kiss long enough to tug Ace’s pants down. They moved backward to the couch. Ace sat. Reyes followed, straddling her lap, knees bracketing compact hips. The new angle brought them face to face. Reyes’ hands framed Ace’s jaw, thumbs stroking cheekbones, then slid into black-violet hair. A hard lump dug into Reyes’ thigh under the cushion. She swore under her breath, reached down without looking, and yanked a mag brush out from between the cushions. She tossed it toward the weapon table. It clattered once and stopped. “Of course I left that there.” Ace’s mouth twitched. “You weaponized furniture.” “Watson lease agreement.” They stayed with the slow work. Reyes’ thumb at Ace’s throat. Palm at her spine. Mouth at the edge of the pulse. She did not ask Ace to explain the pressure. She made it move. Ace’s hands mapped Reyes’ waist, ribs, the soft underside of one breast through thin fabric. Reyes shifted her weight, efficient, because the couch was wrong for Ace’s size and both of them knew it. Later, when the couch had become too narrow and Reyes had complained about her own furniture like it had betrayed her personally, they moved to the bed. The mattress took their weight with a low creak. Skin on skin now. Reyes on her back, Ace above her, compact frame fitting between longer legs. Mouths and hands everywhere at once and nowhere too fast. Reyes’ fingers slid between them, stroking with the same focused directness she brought to every trigger pull. Ace returned the touch, reading every hitch of breath, every small shift of muscle. It took time. Longer than urgency wanted, shorter than Ace’s body expected. Reyes did not hurry her through any of it. The release came quiet and sudden, Ace’s body locking around Reyes’ hand, Shadow Aura flaring emerald once before it crouched low in the corners instead of pacing. Reyes followed moments later, forehead pressed to Ace’s shoulder, a rough sound pulled from her throat. They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling, breaths slowing. Reyes’ fingers traced idle circles on Ace’s hip. Ace’s hand rested heavy on Reyes’ back. The overload was not gone. Pacifica still sat somewhere behind her ribs, a black shape with its mouth closed for now. But Reyes’ breathing stayed warm against her shoulder, and the apartment’s shadows had stopped trying to climb the walls. “You didn’t let it choose for you,” Reyes said after a while. Ace met her eyes. “No.” “Good.” Sleep did not take her cleanly. It never did after nights like this. It came in pieces: Reyes’ hand heavy at her waist, rain worrying the window, the Shadow Aura crouched low in the corners instead of pacing. Ace let the pieces gather. Eventually they made something close enough to rest. --- **Mai/Kiro — Precision-Patched Orbit Scene** Mai stepped into Kiro’s Japantown apartment and immediately had to stop herself from counting the active machines. The door had already been unlocked. The space unfolded in its usual controlled chaos: low ceilings pressing down on banks of monitors that hummed at idle, cables snaking across the floor in deliberate bundles, half-assembled signal rigs balanced on milk crates, empty instant-noodle cups stacked like accidental sculpture. A single string of warm LEDs looped around the far wall, throwing soft amber across the clutter and making the place feel less like a netrunner den and more like a nest someone had forgotten to tidy for three weeks. Rain from the Pacifica job still clung to Mai’s silver hair in fine droplets. Kiro looked up from the low couch where she had been pretending to scroll feeds. Pale silver-blonde hair, uneven at the ends with faded synthetic streaks, fell across one eye. She wore an oversized tech hoodie two sizes too big and loose cargo pants, bare feet tucked under her. The tattoos on her forearms—fragmented circuitry and minimalist glyphs—stood out against the fabric when she pushed herself up. “You’re doing the thing,” Kiro said. “Specify.” “The silent load-bearing statue thing. Very elegant. Terrible for maintenance.” Mai crossed to the couch and lowered herself into the corner that had been clearly claimed by Kiro’s body heat. Kiro followed without hesitation, folding herself into the space beside her, one knee drawn up so their thighs pressed together. Kiro reached out and brushed a droplet from Mai’s cheek with her thumb. The touch lingered, thumb sliding down to trace the line of Mai’s jaw, then resting there, palm open against skin. “Your jaw’s locked. Your shoulders are lying. Your breathing is doing paperwork.” Mai’s breathing changed by degrees. Not faster. Deeper. Her fingers stopped making the tiny counting motion against her own thigh. For three seconds she kept tracking the fan-cycle behind Kiro’s shoulder. Then Kiro’s thumb pressed under her jaw, and the count broke. Mai let it break. Kiro leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Tell me when it stops feeling like work.” The kiss started soft, mouths brushing. Then Kiro tilted her head and deepened it. Mai’s hand rested on Kiro’s thigh, palm open, feeling the muscle tense then ease. A cable pressed into Kiro’s hip. She shifted, swore under her breath. “Ow. No. Bad cable. Intimacy is not a data bus.” Mai’s mouth almost curved. “That sentence is worse than the cable.” “I know,” Kiro said. “I’m stressed.” Kiro blindly reached back and slapped the mute key on a rig that emitted a warning chirp. “Not now.” They stayed with the slow work. Kiro’s fingers slid into Mai’s silver hair. Mouth at the edge of her throat. She kept changing pressure until Mai stopped anticipating the next touch and started feeling the current one. Mai’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Then another. Kiro noticed both and looked absurdly pleased with herself. Kiro tugged Mai’s jacket off. Then the shirt beneath. Mai pushed the hoodie up Kiro’s torso. Tattoos caught the LED light—circuit fragments across collarbones, a small glyph nestled between breasts. Mai traced one with her fingertip, slow drag from sternum to shoulder. Kiro shivered once, then leaned in again. Eventually the couch gave up pretending it had been designed for two adults and a week’s worth of cable clutter. They moved to the bedroom alcove at the back of the apartment. The mattress on a low frame, another string of LEDs looped overhead, a single blanket kicked halfway to the floor. Later was less urgent and less tidy. Kiro talked too much for thirty seconds, lost the thread completely when Mai kissed her throat, and did not bother recovering it. Bodies aligned, hands and mouths, the pattern forming slowly then refusing to stay clean. Kiro changed it whenever Mai got too good at predicting her. Mai started unconsciously tracking the fan-cycle again. Kiro’s thumb pressed under her jaw and the count broke a second time. Mai let it break. The load was still inside her. The difference was that everything else finally existed at the same volume again. They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling. Kiro’s fingers traced idle patterns along Mai’s spine. “You’re less glassy,” Kiro said. “High praise,” Mai said. “In my field, yes.” Later, after a stretch of quiet where Kiro traced her own tattoos under Mai’s fingertips and forgot twice what she had meant to say, they found each other again without deciding to. The pattern was messier this time. Kiro’s hand slipped between them, stroking until Mai’s hips lifted to meet her. Mai returned the touch, two fingers pressing inside, thumb circling, matching rhythm to the way Kiro’s breath hitched. By the time the apartment quieted, the overload had thinned into something Mai could carry without bracing. Kiro pulled the blanket over them and immediately trapped one cable under the corner of it. She stared at the problem with deep personal betrayal. “Tomorrow,” she said. Mai’s mouth almost curved. “It may become a fire hazard.” “Tomorrow with urgency.” The small absurdity did more than it should have. Mai let her hand settle at Kiro’s hip and stopped counting the monitor hum. Outside, Japantown kept blinking through rain. Inside, the overload had not vanished, but it had lost command priority. For now, that was enough. --- **Shammy/Marco/Lena — Precision-Patched Orbit Scene** Shammy stepped through the door of the Pacifica apartment and the room exhaled with her. It was not Heywood, and it did not pretend to be. Pacifica had fewer familiar voices through the walls, more empty concrete, more rain finding bad seams. Marco and Lena had made warmth here anyway. The space felt like both of them at once: Marco’s broad warmth in the low couch piled with blankets that smelled faintly of spice and smoke, Lena’s quiet order in the kitchen where a pot of something slow-simmered on low heat, steam curling toward the single overhead light. Rain tapped the reinforced window in the same irregular rhythm it had kept all night. Marco looked up first from the couch. Dark hair, broad shoulders filling the faded gray shirt he wore, bare feet on the scuffed floor. Lena stood at the kitchen edge, slim frame in a soft black tank and loose pants, dark hair pulled back practical, one hand still holding a wooden spoon. Shammy closed the door. Her damp coat felt heavier than it should have. She ducked a fraction too late under the low hallway light and her pale hair brushed the fixture. It flickered once. She stared at it like it had personally commented on her height. “Still taller than the architecture,” Marco said. Lena set the spoon down. “The architecture will adapt. Shoes off. Coat there.” She crossed first and took the coat from Shammy’s shoulders, folding it properly over the back of a chair instead of letting it drop. Marco moved in from the front, large hands settling on Shammy’s upper arms, sliding down to her elbows, then back up along the long line of her back. Lena stepped behind her, smaller frame fitting against Shammy’s spine, arms sliding around her waist. No rush. Just the three of them forming a closed circuit in the low light. Marco held. Lena adjusted. Shammy stopped trying to keep the air polite. Her hands found Marco’s chest, feeling the steady thump under muscle, then reached back to rest on Lena’s hip. The window stopped rattling first. Then Shammy noticed her hands had unclenched. Lena’s fingers slipped under the hem of Shammy’s shirt, palms flat against bare skin at her waist, tracing slow upward paths along ribs. Marco leaned in and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, breath warm against skin. Lena’s hands moved around to cup Shammy’s breasts from behind, thumbs brushing slow circles. Shammy exhaled once, long and low. Marco’s thumb moved along Lena’s ankle at the same time, a small familiar contact that had nothing to prove. The pot on the stove gave a sudden burble. Lena clicked her tongue once without looking, reached back, and turned the heat down. The sound settled. Marco’s hand touched Lena’s wrist in silent thanks. He obeyed without looking. They stayed with it. Marco’s palm flat between Shammy’s shoulder blades. Lena’s mouth pressing open kisses along the nape of Shammy’s neck. Shammy’s own fingers moved between them—tracing Marco’s jaw, the stubble there, then sliding into Lena’s hair, loosening the tie until dark strands fell free. The couch was the first thing to give up. Shammy was too tall for it, Marco too broad, Lena too unwilling to pretend bad furniture was romantic. Marco shifted a couple of pillows under Shammy’s knees so the angle stopped fighting her. They sank into it anyway, bodies finding whatever space the cushions allowed. Shammy in the middle, one leg hanging half off because the frame was never built for storm-tall women. Marco on one side, Lena on the other. Hands and mouths, shared breathing, shifting weight. No clean choreography. Just heat and the kind of closeness that stopped needing explanation. Later the table entered the night by accident. Marco cleared space badly—one bowl slid, a spoon clattered to the floor. Lena caught the second bowl without comment and set it aside. Shammy laughed once against Lena’s skin before the sound broke into breath. The surface was too narrow and somehow not. Marco’s weight behind her, Lena underneath kissing her through every motion, Shammy’s hair falling across both of them. The room never became still. It only stopped fighting itself. After that the night lost its sequence. They found the bed because the apartment had run out of sensible surfaces and nobody had any dignity left to defend. The mattress was wide enough, blankets already turned down. Shammy in the middle on her back. Marco on one side, Lena on the other. Hands finding anchors, voices low and rough at the edges. Marco’s fingers inside her while Lena’s mouth worked her breast. Shammy’s own hand between both their legs, stroking slow and sure. Lena’s hand touched Marco’s wrist once—not stopping him, just timing him. He adjusted without words. They changed shape more than position. Marco’s weight, Lena’s hands, Shammy’s hair catching static from the cheap wiring. The rest became heat and motion and the kind of closeness that let the overload lose its teeth. Rain kept working at the reinforced window. Somewhere in the kitchen the pot clicked as it cooled. Shammy lay between them with one knee hanging off the mattress because the bed had not been built with storm-tall women in mind. Marco noticed and shifted a pillow under her leg without comment. Lena’s hand stayed around Shammy’s wrist, thumb resting at the pulse point. Lena remembered the food before either of the others did. Not enough to get up. Just enough to mutter, “Tomorrow we reheat it.” Marco laughed into Shammy’s hair. “Breakfast of champions.” “Breakfast of people who failed dinner,” Lena corrected. Shammy felt the room move around the small exchange, ordinary and warm and ridiculous. The load inside her had not vanished. It had simply lost command of the room. She closed her eyes. For once the air did not need her to hold it.