Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city stretched beneath them, a sprawl of chrome and neon bleeding into the smoggy horizon. Night City never slept, never cared, and from the rooftop, it looked almost serene—if you ignored the stink of the gutter and the buzzing of AVs cutting through the dark. 

Valerie sat with her elbows on her knees, pistol resting in her hand like an old companion. The weight of it steadied her, but the gnawing in her chest wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t fear, not entirely. Rather. Just the inevitability. 

The dread. The deaths. The fleeting aspect of hope. All fading. 

The wind tugged at the loose strands of her hair as she looked out over the city, bathed in its famous and familiar neon lights and its filth, alive and rotting at the same time. Down below, sirens wailed in the distance. Someone laughed, or screamed—hard to tell which. 

Especially when her thoughts and focus were on her fingers curling just tighter around the pistol—Johnny’s Malorian Arms 3516. 

She stood slowly, Johnny looking after her from where he sat just beside as she walked to the edge of the rooftop. And looked down. 

It was a long way. 

One breath—a deep slow inhale—and she raised the pistol, pressed the barrel to her temple. The metal was cold, grounding. And her heartbeat was steady. A testament that she was so done. 

Just one pull. It’d all be over. No more running—chasing and trying to escape. No more pain and false hope that seems to hurt more than actual death. Behind her, Johnny said nothing. But of course, it’s Johnny. 

“So,” he said finally, voice rough, “we’ve circled all the exits. And the one where you got close to getting a cure manipulated you, yet you saved her sorry hide.” His signature smirk ghosted his lips, she could tell without having to turn and look just solely based on his tone. “Can’t say I’m not surprised, V. Though I’m not complaining. Mikoshi has always been the plan .” He glanced at her, eyes sharp. 

Johnny Silverhand glitched beside her, seated on the low concrete slab, his spectral form flickering faintly. Cigarette smoke curled around him, though she knew it wasn’t real, yet she swears she can almost feel it—taste it and smell it. 

Her cognitive system must be close to being overwritten with Johnny’s. 

“Fuckin’ scared me, know that?” She glanced down at him, and watched him flail his silver-hand as if to fit his exclamation. Her eyes were uninterested in any of his shenanigans. “Thouht you were on your way out,” he continued with a somber look before adding more to his speech. This time, his eyes seemed to mirror V’s. “Y’know, should call anyone you wanna say goodbye to.” 

“Worst case scenario—that what you think this is?” V’s voice was tired, low, and had a growl in them to emphasize what she’s feeling. And immediately, Johnny responded to her with conviction. “No, but whatever  you decide, risk’s gonna be high. If things don’t go our way…” 

V was certain he meant this as well—suicide—while he still had his mind focused on Mikoshi, and what could go wrong. “Just fuckin’ do it. Anyone you gotta talk to, now’s the time. Pills can wait.” 

Whatever Johnny was plotting, V was certain that she took the bait. Since she was considering calling Panam, an Aldecaldo that Johnny teased her for being sweet on. “A coldhearted Corpo cunt, smitten;  by an Aldecaldo that fucks the rules. Too bad she doesn’t want to do anything with you.” 

She was certain he could read her mind, now more than ever with how she can literally feel how close the Relic is from wiping her clean. Surprisingly, he kept his mouth shut. “I’m callin’ Panam.” 

“Panam.” His voice was flat, but underneath it, V could almost hear the amusement. But then her thoughts wandered to the woman-in-topic. “Just wanna hear her voice.” And just like that, V began calling her as Johnny looked outwards towards Night City along with V on the edge of the building. “Sure as hell hope it’s that and only that.” 

Ignoring what Johnny had to say, V could feel herself anticipating for Panam to answer, each ring a chance she didn't pick up. Then she’s met with a groan, and a sleeping view of Panam with her eyes still closed. “Mmm, hey…” 

Johnny’s pistol was forgotten, even though she was still holding it—it remained idle on her side, far from blowing her brains out—as she focused on what to tell Panam. “Somethin’... Somethin’ I gotta do today.” Her voice was becoming harder to control, as she desperately tried to sound strong and clear for her. “Gonna be high risk, big time. But I have to.” 

V could see the thoughts in Panam’s mind work, but she ended up clueless and asked instead. Eyes finally awake, staring and worried. “What is it?” Instantly, V responded cautiously, “It’s not for comms, not really.” With V’s unreassuring reply, the Aldecaldo’s worries cranked up by a notch. “Then shut up and tell me where you are. In the city?” 

Confused and startled, V gave a muddled yeah , before Panam shot up from her bed and began wearing her iconic Aldecaldo jacket. “Ok. Then plant your butt somewhere and wait. I’m on my way.”

The bewilderment she had a second ago, had turned into a warm feeling in her chest—realizing what Panam was doing. However, she thought against it almost as soon as the realization settled in. “You don’t get it. I… I can’t wait anymore.” 

And it would just hurt for V, who was on the crossroad of just ending her life. Does she even want to fight for it, anymore? She doesn't, right? What was she saying? I can’t wait anymore.  

Then Panam’s voice broke her out of whatever state her mind was in. “This has something to do with what you were tellin’ me before?” V looked at the holo, and this time Panam had a serious look on her—conviction and the drive to believe—as she walked out her tent. “Because I’ll say one thing—there’s always a way out. And here’s what you need to do.” 

Captivated and having V’s attention all on her, Panam continued to speak softly yet delivering a firm voice to stop V from doing anything stupid—like suicide, V figured. “You need to take a few deep breaths. Then rethink all of this, hard. And then you can call me back. Do you know why?” 

Valerie knew why . And Johnny did so too, based on the soft look he was giving her. 

“Because I’m here for you.” 

Instantly, any manners of thoughts of defeat, giving up—went out of her head. Though some lingered,  it was safe to say that she’s out of that stupor  of hers. And it was thanks to Johnny. 

“But–” 

“End of discussion.” 

With an approving smirk, Johnny replied as he continued to look out of Night City—attempting at best to conceal his smile—as he spoke up about Panam’s approach. “Well played.” And mentioning the obvious, V had something to add as well. “Wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise…” 

“Prolly for the best. Woulda said too much anyways.” There was evident lightness to his voice, bastard was actually happy . “Was good you called,” Johnny added, until it dropped. “Wish I’da had the chance to.” 

It fell silent between them after, for a few blissful moments as V could recall back everything that they’ve done as she withdrew from the edge and sat back at her seat while Johnny remained where he was seated. And as if sharing the same thought, Johnny made a comment. “Come a long way to get here, haven’t we?” 

Then as if the grand storyteller as he was an artist in a rebel rocker group, he brought up both his hands and mimicked a gun with them as he said, “Just think—it all started in a fuckin’ landfill.” With a chuckle as the memory flashed in her mind, V replied in the same tone—as if they were just two lifelong friends. “Mhm. Then you tried to kill me.” 

Instead of recoiling at the action he had done, Johnny doubled in with that signature smirk of his to go along with as he delivered his lines, “See, exactly what I mean. Tryna save your sorry hide now. And if you can let me do that–”

“–Or I can take Hanako’s offer.” 

They began talking over each other, but Johnny always had the bigger mouth and final say. “And lose, V. Damnmit, there’s more at stake here than your life.” 

“And what are those stakes, Johnny? You? Arasaka?” V scoffs as she lists all that Johnny has at stake—which are just those she mentioned. “I can tell you the reasons why these are your stakes. And somehow, I’m not surprised.” 

Johnny didn’t answer right away. Didn’t have to. That look he gave her—half fire, half ghosts—said more than any smart remark ever could. Instead, after a hot couple of seconds he turned back to look at Night City, eyes scanning the streets below as if somewhere out there was the answer neither of them could quite hold in their hands. 

“You’re not wrong,” he finally said, voice low. “But it’s also not just about me, V. Not anymore. Not after that talk we had at the dump.” That’s right, at Johnny’s supposed grave—or just a landfill rather than a cemetery that he’d expected. 

V’s words had hit him—hard. “The guy who saved my life,” Johnny spoke up, rehearsing what V had said long prior in that wasteland, as he inspected his sunglasses before meeting V’s eyes, remembering what he had said in response at the oil field—that fits their current predicament. 

“V… You don’t know how much I want that to be true.” He said exactly what he had said then. This time, he was going to back it up.

“And kinda tough deciding which of your friends get to die, isn’t it? Good news is you got this one choom who’s already dead. And he’d be honored to join you on a wild, suicide run.” A nice way to mock V with their version of a suicide attempt, no, so long as Johnny was in V’s head—they’d have to fight which one of them had a better version in all manners. And this—suicide run—was Johnny’s. 

“You, me and Arasaka Tower. Kinda sounds like a Eurodyne lyric, I know, but trust me—we’ll go fuckin’ nova.”

This was it. And V was all ready to chippin’ in. 

With a small smile and the best she can muster, despite sounding like shit, anyone could hear the amusement in V’s voice at her response. “If I gotta die, rather fall into my grave, gun in hand and on fire. And not drag anyone down with me.” 

And as if on a social cue, Johnny threw that digitalized cigarette in between his silverhand fingers onto the ground, lips ghosting a proud smirk that reached the eyes as he stood with a bounce in his feet. 

“Huh, you just discovered what it takes to become a legend… Grab your iron—let’s mobilize.” 

With shaky breaths out of excitement, adrenaline or the Relic, Johnny offered his hand; and V accepted by taking it. 

Coming to, after she had blacked out—or more likely Johnny taking the wheels on the way over to Arasaka—she was walking at the literal front door as she saw Johnny appear on the side acting like a child as he whirls his arm and points straight up into Arasaka Tower. Then he barked a laugh as he made an auspicious comment. 

“Time to party like it’s 2023.” 

They didn’t kick the door in. V, didn’t. 

They walked. 

And when the guards noticed her too late. She had quickhacked him mid-sentence—synapses flared, neural links shorted. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings. 

The silence shattered. Sirens wailed. Red lights began to pulse. 

Then the official raid began. 

V was already moving, a blur in motion—her pistol snapped up, and a pair of Arasaka guards dropped before they even raised their weapons. This continued on as she altered between gunpowder smoke and netrunning, as she flowed between cover points, her deck lighting up with command prompts, code bleeding from her mind into enemy hardware and software alike. 

“Turrets, V,” Johnny growled, hiding behind a cover just beside her. “Flip ‘em.” 

“Already on it!”

Her optics flooded with data. She jacked into the security feed—a dozen turrets flickered, then twisted toward their own men. “It’s raining bullets, hallelujah.” Johnny sneaked in as the gunfire erupted from above, bullets chewing through armor and flesh as Arasaka’s defenses betrayed them. 

The time it took for the air to be filled with smoke and screams were short, though it ended just as quickly. With the rest of the floor cleared, she advanced forward—floor by floor—methodical and relentless. 

In one such case was a corridor lined with armored response units—she blacked out their optics with a quick spike, easy and simple before she rolled into the open, Johnny’s Malorian; anti-personnel weapon, flashing like lightning. Each shot was deliberate: throat, eye, heart. Though it didn’t really matter where she shot them. It was designed to be a powerful hand cannon, famously commissioned by Johnny Silverhand, who was living inside her head. 

And Johnny was with her every second, his voice raw in her skull. 

“Hell yeah! That’s it, V!” 

Just then a mech dropped from the ceiling, the same ones that V and Jackie had met during their escape from Arasaka. It was heavy, spider-like, with plasma guns arcing with heat. Immediately, V hit the floor in a slide, quickhacking its targeting matrix mid-dive. It was taking a while, and so as she runs, dodges and dashes for cover, when the thing almost had her with Johnny screaming her name beside her, it stuttered, spun and burst into a ball of flame. 

“Phew, any second longer and we’d both be turned to paste.” 

V didn’t have any comment to add, not when by the time she reached the elevator shaft, her long-coat was shredded, the right sleeve soaked red. Her arm trembled, nerves overclocked from too many hacks in too short a time. 

“You okay, V?” 

She breathed deep. Reloaded. Pushed on. 

The lower levels were worse—fortified, crawling with elite soldiers and automated defense drones. V switched tactics, leaning harder on her deck. She looped security feeds, bricked smartguns mid-fight, triggered EMP traps embedded in the walls. Though her pistol refused to sit out on the fight as it barked through the chaos, each bullet like punctuation in a violent sentence written in blood and fire. 

“Watch out, you got assassins coming.” A cyberninja  came at her from the rafters, blade flashing, just as Johnny finished spotting them out. She caught him mid-leap with a system burnout, his implants cooking under the skin that he hit the floor with a loud thud as he spasmed and twitched. 

The sight looked familiar. She’d done it when she was in Arasaka Counter-Intel. And she’s done it as a merc with Jackie. Now, she’s a rebel with a legend storming Arasaka Tower. She didn’t look back twice. 

“Still with me?” V muttered between breaths when she couldn’t find Johnny anywhere, and his input for every minute was missing. 

Johnny’s voice crackled as he emerged. “Wouldn’t miss it for the end of the fuckin’ world, V.” 

Then the air shifted. The hallway fell silent, save for the crackling of burning circuitry behind her. A chill ran down her spine—heavy steps echoed from the far end. 

Metal on concrete. 

“Smasher!” Johnny yelled out in anger as Adam Smasher emerged like a war machine from hell—chrome gleaming, red eyes pulsing like a bullseye on death itself. His voice was cold steel, filtered through modulated speakers. 

V quickhacked the gate to close, yet despite it, Night City’s boogeyman rammed right through it. “Where is Rogue?! Wanted no part of this raid, the old cunt?!” 

“V, I hope you’re in for making sure that fucker’s mouth stays shut.” Johnny seethed in calm anger, trying to keep a level head as V placed a distance between her and Smasher. “Told you I am, didn’t I? I’m all in.” 

The fight was hell. Bullets sparked off metal plating, as Smasher moved with terrifying speed, faster than her own, with brute force shaking even the tower with every strike. V had managed so far to dart in and out, hacking his optics, jamming his systems for precious seconds at a time. All the while Johnny screamed in her ear to keep pushing. 

At a certain moment, Smasher spun, lashed out—caught her side with the back of his arm which flew her into a wall, coughing blood. “Get up! Now’s not the time, V!” Johnny roared. 

With all the strengths she could muster, V forced herself up, pain blinding. And her deck flared again—as she dumped her RAM pool into a neural overload, sending it straight to Smasher’s processing unit. Then as if a gift from Songbird, the new cyberware chip she had installed—she used it.

Finally,  he collapsed immobile on the floor. Both of them were, but V crawled her way to him, leaving a blood trail. Smasher’s mangled form sparked on the floor, one cybernetic arm twitching weakly, his red optic flickering like a dying signal. Hydraulic fluid pooled beneath him, and metal groaned. 

Painful and with great efforts, V managed to stand over to cast a gaze down at him. Blood trailed down her side, her breath coming sharp and shallow. She was  a wreck—but she was still standing. And he wasn’t. 

He growled through ruined vocalizers. “Impossible.” 

In V’s terrible shape, she took a slow step forward, before leveling the Malorian square at his chest. Her voice was hoarse but steady. Though the smirk hinted at something else. “Yeah? Funny.” 

Smasher glared up at her, half a sneer forming beneath twisting plating. Before she crouched down, just far enough to look at him in the optic. Her words hit like hammer strikes. “You remember Johnny Silverhand? The guy that blew up Arasaka at the foot of this tower?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Oh that does it.  

While V was in control, she swears if she lets go—her fingers were naturally holding the Malorian tighter—as Johnny appeared just behind her, arms crossed, eyes locked on Smasher behind undisguised hatred beneath those sunglasses. His flickering form glitching. 

V smiled, bitter and cold. “He’s here. Right now. Watching you squirm.”

“Surprise, asshole,” Johnny growled. “Still breathing. Still fighting.”

Smasher’s optic twitched. He tried to rise—a final jerk of movement, fueled by spite. Valerie didn’t flinch. She pressed the barrel of her pistol against the synth plating over his heart.

“Thought you could kill a legend,” she said. “Turns out, you just made one.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This one's for him.”

With a singular loud shot. It rang out like a death knell. The round punched through Smasher’s chest, bursting out the back with a plume of sparks and shredded chrome. His body convulsed—then collapsed into stillness, red light in his optic flickering once… and dying.

Silence fell.

Smoke drifted lazily through the ruin of the tower's top lowest level. Behind her, Johnny exhaled—not relief, exactly, but something close.

V withdraws, pain surging in every nerve as she makes the final path to Mikoshi.

Chapter Text

The digital plane shimmered, unstable and infinite, like a dream that refused to end. Light twisted into shadow, collapsing and rebuilding in impossible shapes. Or at least, it tries to. The landscape, or rather inside Arasaka Tower where V can recall the last memories of what Johnny had before Smasher. Before the nuclear detonating. 

It was beautiful, in a sense, and suffocating all at once, the kind of place where time itself had no meaning. And it rattled V in every way.

V stood at the center of it, her boots sinking into the glowing surface that wasn’t floor, wasn’t ground neither, just something that kept her on the surface. The void stretched out in every direction, pulsing with faint echoes of voices and statics she couldn’t place. Were they whispers, screams? Something in between?

Then she saw Johnny, seated on a table that could belong to a restaurant diner, something like where she first met with Goro. 

‘Damn it felt like a lifetime ago.’ V thought as Johnny waved at her, and beckoned her over. “Told ya to trust me. Didn’t disappoint, didn’t I?” He bragged, all high, mighty and right—and he was soaking it in—as he glitched out and in before appearing seated on the booth with his legs perched on top of the table he was sitting on before. V, following his example, took a seat on the booth directly opposite of Johnny’s. Waiting.

Then Alt manifested before them, her form sharp and ethereal, strands of pure code cascading down her like hair—just in zeroes and ones. Her eyes, if they could be called eyes, glowed with indifferent clarity. There was no warmth in them, no judgement—only facts, logic and numbers.

“Devised a solid plan and pulled it off. That’s you. Well done.” Johnny was again the first to speak, breaking the ice, if V could say due to the tension that’s somehow present. But it was hard not to have something to say back to Johnny with such a near-compliment commentary. “I’m sorry, not sure I quite caught that.” 

“Then wash out your ears, you dumbass.” He smiled, not even bothering to hide it. A smile broke out of V’s lips too right after, as they both looked to Alt. 

“So, when do we start?” V had all but to ask. “Haven’t caught on yet, have ya?” Johnny slides right in, taking V’s attention from Alt. “What– Whaddaya mean?” Confusion was all V was at, though Johnny had a response to that as well. “Alt’s already split us. Once you jacked into Mikoshi, she lit you up with Soulkiller.” 

Impressive. V turned to look at Alt, “Your output doesn’t fuck around.” Both V and Johnny with smiles on their faces—adrenaline still pumped in their veins, even if they were in the digitalized realm—until Alt decided to finally speak up. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

At this, while it was impressive, V just had to ask out of curiosity. “Though, you hit me with Soulkiller—‘thout asking?” And as if truly speaking with an AI, Alt responded with logic. “It was the only way I could fulfill your request.” All delivered in a flat, monotone voice. 

“Fuck, I’d’ve liked a warning at least…” A little drip of nervousness leaked from V’s voice, though it was rightly so. Then, Johnny replied to make it seem as if it was nothing at all. “Been a construct for just a few minutes and already no one gives a damn what you want. Welcome to the club, V.” 

“Wait, hold on. I wanna know what the hell happened to me. Exactly!” And true to herself, Alt explained the function, the details and the tiny bit she never disclosed. Because she didn’t take it into account. The nervousness in Johnny’s voice was the icing on the cake as that was what exactly put V on the edge. 

“Alt, what?” 

“The body as the key factor in this transaction–”

The rest of the explanation was drowned out, V’s hearing turned deaf as she can already assume what fate has already had in store for her. Then her hearing tunes back in at the right moment to hear the last parts of Alt’s summary. “After I transfer your construct into your body, you will die. It is inevitable. It is imminent.” 

“Fuck–” V whispered to herself. As Johnny, quiet and silent, lowered his head in shock, defeat, who knows—V didn’t—as Alt laid it out to her. “You shall live for about 6 months, perhaps somewhat more.” 

What the fuck?  

“No, no, no…” What the fuck? “There’s gotta be somethin’, somethin’ we haven’t thought of!” Then like reasons, whether rational or not, clashes with the cold simplicity and hard truth. Alt replied all the same, “Your body will see you as an intruder.” That to which, V, responded with conviction—no matter how defeated she sounded and felt. “But it’s my body!” From her peripheral, she could see Johnny shaking his head at this, a sad somber look on his face as if he had something to lose. 

“The biochip’s nanites have altered it permanently. The body is now Johnny–” 

“Alt, give us a minute. V and I need to talk.” 

V’s eyes landed on Johnny, hard. Between softness and firmness, they were there in both her eyes and Johnny’s as they’re faced with the situation. Decisions, decisions. 

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” V lashed, her hope had turned into nothing. A shit-show illusion. And there’s nothing left but anger, and the familiar feeling of being helpless. Was her last effort been for nothing, as well? 

“I’ve had enough of this. Of everything… You most of all…” Johnny recognized that V was at her limit, there was nothing else she could do. Except him, that is. As they glitched into a different position. V’s seated on the floor, her back against the wall, and him taking a seat on a chair—just like at that moment where Johnny showed and gave her that dog-tag, his dog-tag.

“Imagine we’re deployed together, fightin’ side by side… Would you take a bullet for me?”

And Johnny remembers V’s words as clearly as the ones in the oil field. “I would, yeah.”

Sacrifice. For a friend. 

“Perfect, ‘cause we’re sticking to the plan. I’m goin’ with Alt, fuck knows where; you’re keepin’ your body.”

Conversation went back and forth, until V voiced out what she expected the outcome of this would be. “Guess I meant, I dunno… a… a happier ending for everyone involved.” Then a small smile graced Johnny’s lips, though however cynical it was. “Here, for folks like us? Wrong city, wrong people.”

Wrong city, wrong people.

V took a moment to herself. And in those moments, her train of thoughts started from the very start. Jackie, the first to pick her up and the first to fall. A kindred spirit in a city that snuffs the type out. Then Evenlyn, tortured and raped to the extent that it broke her. And of course, Songbird, So Mi. Everyone V knew, falling like a house of cards. 

‘At least she made it, at my expense.’  V thought. What was the cure for her and Songbird, there was only one. And she let it be. Even did the heavy lifting and did the send off. Emotions were high and V reflecting on her actions were a terrible mixture. 

If only being with Jackie didn’t make her soft, or Mama Welles being such a caring mother, perhaps Misty opening her to insight than simple logic and self-indulgent profit, though maybe Viktor being carefree and relaxed. 

If only she was still in Arasaka, working for Arthur Jenkins, had all of the counter-intelligence and its assets at her beck and call. She wouldn’t be here. She’d be thriving. She was made to be a Corpo. Not a sympathetic, loser, selfless helpful piece of shit that puts everyone’s needs before her. 

If only she can just give up. 

And V realizes, she can .

She can just do it— let go .

Clarity, serenity, as if she was in the dark—which she was in mind and soul—there was finally the light at the end of the tunnel. And rather than turning from it, no matter how blinding, harsh and painful it was. It was freedom, from all of it. And also. She could also save someone else, yet again, at her own expense.

That someone just made themselves heard.

“Hey, V? Let’s get this show on the road, ain’t no sense holding it out.” Johnny glitched directly in front of her, knees slightly bent as he crouched to get a good look of her from below, his eyes searching hers as she stared right passed him. 

Then nothing like being gobsmacked by the course of action that V decided, stupid, logical, arrogant and fucking selfless. If there was one thing Johnny liked about V when being forced into her memories as a corporate pawn, was that she would get what she had in mind—do whatever it takes to get them. Not this. 

She shook her head, tired, drained of hope and having concluded. He knew without her even having to say it. And as if they were already merged, he began to copy her gesture, her habit—or maybe it was his that she was copying from—as he immediately pointed her out for her choice. “Turnin’ your back on the problem again?!” 

Johnny shook his head in disapprovement as V ignored him. “Alt, take me, goin’ with you.” 

V, Johnny, Alt and the scene glitched in a second and V was up standing, straight ahead was whatever was at the end of the tunnel. Bright, shining light. She begins to make her way to it, slow like a casual walk across the park, and she spots Johnny pacing back and forth—but she ignores him and walks right through. 

A couple of strides along Johnny glitched in front of her, disapproving, astonished at her choice of action, V could hear and see it from the tone of his voice and the look on his face. “What? A little guilt creeps in and that’s that? You give up?” 

V didn’t have any will-power to have any smart or any response, except the courtesy of one. And she sounded defeated than she ever was. 

“Stop… Just stop.” 

The hard expression on his face fell, soft and distraught. But V pushed forward, refusing to spare a look his way. It’ll only be harder, and scarier than it already was.

But of course, Johnny just had to, V expected him to, as he grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around. “Gonna just roll over instead of fightin’ for what’s yours? Decomish yourself ‘cause you’re too fuckin’ scared to say goodbye?”

‘Fuck you! So what if I am?!’ V wanted to say it out loud, but that would only convince Johnny and herself all the more that whatever she was determined to do, didn’t have to be. She can still live out her life, 6 months, still dying. 

Or let her friend get another chance at living a full life. 

V kept quiet, hot stares from Johnny daring her to speak her mind. But she doesn’t, instead she softly replied, “It’s my decision, let me make it.” 

She tries again to continue down the path she chose, and then again, Johnny pulls at her shoulder to knock  some senses into her. And this time, instead of sounding harsh, he sounded sympathetic, normal, despite sounding like an asshole. “You’re loyal, grant you that. But dammit are you dense. Haven’t changed a bit since we met."

This time, she doesn’t give him a response. Not even the pathetic excuses that she could think of. And she wouldn’t have to keep it up for long, the end of the road; and what’s left was the bright light beyond. 

Peace, salvation, paradise. She didn’t know what to expect.

But what she also didn’t expect was for Johnny to pour out what he was feeling. ‘At least he had the balls to do it,’ V thought as she listened, ears unbelieving and her throat feeling restricted. 

“V, I’m just… I’m just scared for ya…”

Not a word. V, didn’t say a word, too afraid that her feelings would pour out. Unlike Johnny’s. However, V did manage to give him the softest, genuine smile she ever gave as she offered him her hand—a simple gesture, a handshake. And the biggest lie with it. 

“I’ll see you ‘round, Johnny.”

Johnny hesitated. Never had he hesitated, not once, not after deserting. But here, and now, he hesitated. Johnny felt all the familiar sense of grieving, and he was already a step ahead of mourning when he shook V’s hand, strong, firm and longing. 

He didn’t say another word. 

None of them did.

Chapter Text

V a l e r i e, " V "

Johnny woke in silence.

His eyes snapped open, lungs pulling in too much air at once, chest heaving like he’d just surfaced from drowning. He was—after that nightmare. For a moment he lay still, listening, trying to calm down. No gunfire. No sirens. No voices bleeding through the walls. Surprising.

Night City didn’t do rare nights like these. Especially not just the low hum of the city outside the window.

He pushed upright, fists braced against the mattress. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and sharp. Valerie’s skin. V’s. His hand rose halfway to his face before he stopped, curling it into a fist instead. He didn’t need another reminder. The nightmares were plenty.

Looking around, the room was unfamiliar, of course, it was some dive on the outskirts he’d been squatting in since the raid. Much like the time V’s stupid stunt in kidnapping Hanako had them hiding like a hunted animal. The plaster walls were cracked, the sheets damp with mildew, and the air stank faintly of a rotting dead corpse somewhere.

He’d stopped counting days. Maybe it’s been a week. Long enough for Arasaka’s dogs to give up the chase—or after having dealt such a huge blow; loosen up the hunt at least—after all, they had the entire globe up in arms against them since buried truths were brought to surface.

Another corporate war was fucking brewing. And Johnny knew it.

Johnny swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet met the warped floorboards. And, for a second, he just sat there, waiting for his chest to slow down, for his brain to quit screaming. It didn’t. It never stopped.

Pushing the voices aside, he dragged himself to his feet, pulled on clothes that didn’t feel like his, which consisted of a black longcoat that V always liked wearing with matching colors for a turtleneck. The pants were the same, the color and the fabric. If he was dubbed the Black Dog , then she was the Grim Reaper . 

Or Noir, if V had any title. 

But he does know that he needed a smoke, and he lit a cigarette that burned down too fast. The smoke settled in his lungs. He coughed, easily, body wasn’t his—V didn’t smoke. He tried to grab another, but his hand was already shaking—this wasn’t his body to destroy or use, he thought—so he dropped the pack back on the table, and instead he brought his attention elsewhere. Like the coffeemaker in the corner that hissed like it was on its last legs.

Fortunately enough, since he found the dump, there were stored packets he’d found in the cupboard. It was cheap, shit, and coffee. So, when he made one, the smell hit him, and his stomach turned.

Citrus blend. Cheap. Bitter in the back of the throat. V’s favorite.

At least, from what he could tell from the memories, it was her favorite after she couldn’t afford the coffee she used to have before she was purged from the corpo lifestyle she lived lavishly. 

Johnny stared at the mug for a long moment, mind thinking and thoughts running, before finally taking a sip. The taste made him wince, but he kept drinking. Didn’t feel right, but neither did throwing it away.

After a while, and a few sips, he had managed to get the bathroom door stuck when he pushed it open, dragging against the swollen frame with a flickering light buzzing overhead. It was as messy as the entire place, cracked titles, a sink stained with rust, and a mirror that should’ve been thrown out a decade ago.

Just like him.

He leaned in, then stopped cold.

Her face. Not really, not truly—it was his face, now. And the tilt of his jaw, the hollow under his eyes, and the ghost of her expression staring back at him. It was something about the way grief carved them both into the same shape. He blinked, once. She didn’t vanish.

And a whirlwind of emotions hit him as he stared, quietly capturing every feature of V’s face. Unconsciously, he muttered, “Oh, V.” Before he pulled away, quick, and forced the feelings down. Drowning it. He went out not long after, jumping right into his car that V somehow managed to find, courtesy to her bottomless pit of mercy and sparing Grayson.

Johnny wondered how he and V would’ve fared if she was her Arasaka counterpart, cold, merciless, and a bitch, rather than the mercenary that got the life in which she brought the coldness down by a mile, and selfless and loyal to a fault.

He drove straight into Night City, letting it swallow him whole. The streets buzzed with early morning static—corpo wage-slaves hustling to jobs that would kill them slower than bullets, fixers already barking into phones, stalls hawking noodles and braindances to the bleary-eyed.

After driving through a few blocks, and before knowing it, he had already parked and was walking the streets without really thinking, hands shoved in V’s longcoat pockets, her boots hitting the pavement with a rhythm he didn’t mean to copy. And the further he went, the more the familiar the streets became.

Until he stopped in front of a cafe. Odd. 

Sleek glass, chrome edges, tables pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with corpo service drones. He almost turned away, but then the memory hit—V sitting at one of those tables, sleeves rolled to her elbows, pretending to relax while scrolling through a shard. The way she’d tap her nails against the mug when she was bored. The way she kept her back to the wall, even here.

Johnny stepped inside before he knew why. 

The place smelled like roasted beans and antiseptic cleanliness, the kind of sterile comfort corps liked to sell their burned-out kids. He ordered a coffee, without thinking, only realizing moments late that it was the same blend V used to buy, and sat down at the farthest corner table, in which he found himself seated.

The seat felt wrong under him. Too clean. Too quiet. He could almost see her here, prompted up directly seated in front of him, leaning back, smirking when she cracked a case. 

He took a sip, let the bitterness crawl down his throat and die there, before he muttered under his breath.

“Christ, V. How’d you stomach this corpo shit?”

No answer, of course. Just the drones beeping, and the hum of neon signs outside. He left the  mug half-full and  walked out before the  walls could  press in any tighter. 

He should leave. Johnny Silverhand, the rocker boy that blew Arasaka, was gone—has been for a long time. And yet, here he was. He should leave Night City, and everything with it.

“Speakin’ of the devil,” Johnny whispered under his breath as he made it back to the hideout he’s been, just as Panam called, and he simply let it go by until it left another voicemail. 

And there were a lot of them, from the many people V met. 

Johnny just hadn’t been able to watch them, much less give them a courtesy call which wouldn't have been welcomed anyways. But, since he was considering leaving. Maybe he should open it, check it, for V. 

She did have the sweets for Panam. And while initially the Aldecaldo made it clear that she didn’t swing that way, Johnny was certain over time and the fast development of their friendship that the fiery-hot-tempered woman that was older than V, was gradually warming up to it. 

  Johnny scoffed as V was totally clueless. The gonk. 

So he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, eyes roaming the clutter. He didn’t know where to put  his hands, didn’t know how to sit in this body without feeling like he was betraying her every second.

Then, finally, he answered. 

And Panam’s face filled the holo.

“Really? You’re just gonna avoid me? Of course you would, you fucking coward!” The headstrong start had him caught by surprise, and while he shouldn’t, it was warranted after he had refused and avoided everyone V had in her contacts like a ghost. He could guess the previous others were pretty much the same, as Panam continued her speech. And Johnny, watched closely, quietly, kept shut by the bare naked truth of it all.

“Here’s a bit of advice for you, Johnny. Enjoy your new lease on life, ‘cause it’s  not gonna last long. I’m serious.” Johnny didn’t have a doubt, he knew the type. And then the gasoline is put on fire.

“Believe me when I say I’m going to find you, you fucking psychopath—wherever you’re hiding. And when I do. I’m gonna rip V outta your head. Don’t ask me how, but so far I’m counting on sheer will. You know what you are, Johnny? A parasite . A fucking tapeworm! You hear me?! Enjoy the little time you have left.”

Feelings that he had forced down, that has tormented him since V gave up her life—took the bullet for him—at Mikoshi; all surfaced like a drain pipe shooting from below the street and sky high. 

Hurt, guilt, and grief.  

Johnny sat in silence, staring dead center at the walls. 

Then another ping. His stomach twisted when he saw the sender. Rogue. Aside from everyone V knew, only Rogue were their mutual contact, and only she was the exception in which he had reached out. She hadn’t replied, and he was too far beyond in hoping he’d receive a message. Not after what he had revealed.

So, as he hovered over the play button for too long, he finally pressed it with a sigh that scraped his throat raw. Then Rogue’s face filled the holo. Older, colder, but not without feeling. The shadows of the Afterlife bar flickered behind her.

“Got your message. Johnny, look—I’ve been around long enough to know that anything is possible in your fucked up world… but I never imagined this , even from you. You must’ve made a pretty big impression on V for getting her on board with this, so… hat’s off.” 

Johnny had nothing to say, nothing. Those that knew were evidently against it, against him. Despite being absolutely with them on the feeling. He, also, didn’t want this. Yet, he couldn’t say anything as Rogue continued talking in the voicemail.

“I’m just wondering how you feel about that, Johnny—havin’ another person give their life for you. ‘Specially when you’re probably just back to all-nighters and cheap tequila, laughing at how stupid she was?”

Wrong. Johnny wanted to say that much, even if only he could hear it. Then again, if that wasn’t his nature that Rogue had accurately depicted, if he was or is the narcissistic asshole that he was—that’d be what he’s doing. But he wasn’t, at least in this timeline or whatever scientific terms used. He wasn’t that guy anymore. 

“Or has your conscience finally learned its lesson—that is, if you’ve even got one…”

It has.

Then, with finality, Rogue gave one last message, a farewell and a warning. “Good luck out there, Johnny. And don’t ever come back to Night City.” Her face lingered a moment longer before the message cut out.

Johnny’s hand dropped into his lap. His chest felt tight, lungs refusing to fill. Two women, two different corners of his life, both cursing his name. Both blaming him for a crime he hadn’t meant to commit.

And maybe they were right. They were right.

The silence closed in again, heavy, suffocating. He pushed to his feet, crossing back to the mirror. Valerie’s eyes stared back, red-rimmed and tired, despite the inorganic optics. 

‘Fuck it.’

His grin twisted across her lips, bitter and wrong.

“Alright, V,” he rasped. “Guess I’ll fix this. Somehow.”

The first step.

And Johnny Silverhand, for the first time in a long while, felt something close to resolve.

Chapter Text

The North Oak Columbarium, where every dead in Night City is put to rest. The good, the bad, and the ugly. A place where a victim’s ash could be placed right next to their killer. Like Alt’s and Johnny’s. 

‘If only I wasn’t the piece of shit that I was,’ Johnny thought back to all the time that he was. It never got old, not after he finally had grown a conscience—ever since he was forcibly stuck in a former Arasaka’s lapdog’s head. V definitely knew how to think and act. Unlike him, he’d prefer to act and fuck off right after. That of which he was sure that V had first-hand experience when they first met, and his memories being wide open for criticism.

And did V have a lot to say.

To which Johnny had smirked at every last one of them.

But right then and there, as Johnny—in V’s body—stares at the person’s memorial with their own living body. Any emotions that made him feel worse tripled. How couldn’t he not, when he couldn’t even put anything inside—not an ash, or anything. Except maybe the pendant Misty gave V.

“The guy who saved my life,” V’s phrase for Johnny truly was a hard one-liner. He had to give it to her. Bastard nearly jerked a tear out of him. And still, as he stood in front of her memorial, he read the epitaph he made for her, chest heavy.

“Who saved my life, and plenty of others.” 

Johnny’s chest hollowed out. His lips parted, but no sound came. He crouched down, running V’s fingers across V’s own memorial. It shouldn’t be like this. He waves it to open, and inside he placed the pendant and closed it without having said a word. Until he did.

“The guy who saved your life,” he muttered, voice cracking around the words. “Choom, I stole it. Took it like a goddamn thief.”

Without meaning to, he pressed his forehead against the cold stone, controlled by emotions. “Guess it was my turn, huh? You wrote me a verse, and you made me write yours. And you say I’m an asshole, V.” His voice was low, but light, he even chuckled at the end before his face fell flat. Thoughts running.

“Just hold on, ‘k? I’m bringing you back. I owe you that much.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and then he stood, the digital epitaph staring back at him in silence. Looking outward, outside the Columbarium, Night City glowed faintly in the distance, neon bleeding into the dark horizon.

As he exited, and as he was about to get into his car, a voice rasped at him from the steps. “Spare a few eurobucks, choom? Gotta keep the chrome runnin’.”

Johnny stopped. The beggar was half-cybered, half-rotted, chrome legs fused into a dented wheelchair. One eye glowed red, the other milk-white. He clutched a paper cup with shaking hands.

For a moment, Johnny just stared. Before he fished a shard of change out of V’s pocket—her pocket, her money—and dropped it in the cup. The beggar grinned, jagged teeth flashing.

“You’re a saint, stranger. A real saint.”

Johnny smirked bitterly, lighting another cigarette. “Wrong guy, pal.”

The beggar laughed, a dry, hollow sound that turned into a cough. “Ain’t we all? But we make the most of it, yeah?”

‘Yeah’, Johnny was the wrong guy in finding a way to successfully get V back. He even believes maybe Panam has a better shot. But, this was his friend. The only one that stuck up high and low with him. 

So he’d best be the spearhead in the pursuit of this shenanigan. The rocker boy wasn’t off the stage yet, not anytime so soon.

Arriving at Watson in his Porsche, it was no different from any place else in Night City. And all they had in common were the blaring neon lights. Though, Johnny would say that he liked the vibe or the aesthetic more than the clean edging look counterpart over the bridge, as the lights reflected from mirrors and metals.

The city breathed around him, restless as ever. But he wasn’t the only ghost moving through its veins.

His holo buzzed—not a message this time, but a data shard dropped into his inbox. No sender. Just a timestamp and a pulsing red icon. If he didn’t know better, it was a virus. Yet, Johnny trusted V’s optics and cyberware enough for it to not be indicated as a danger. So, he loaded it, suspicion still coiling tight in his gut.

Then, a voice crackled through. Mitch.

“V? You there? Look, I don’t know what the hell’s going on. You vanish, no word, no trace, and now I hear whispers you’re back—only… off. Different. Panam’s been pacing like a rattler in a cage. Says if you’re out there, she’s gonna drag you back by the collar. Clan doesn’t know what to think, and to be honest? Neither do I. But if you’re hearing this… don’t let her get a whiff of your scent.”

Static. Then silence.

Johnny leaned back in his seat, jaw set. Panam. Always fire first, questions later. ‘I wonder if this is how V feels talking to me,’ Johnny gave it a thought, then shrugged it off. He could hear her even now—sharp, relentless, that edge in her voice when something didn’t add up. 

Panam fucking Palmer.

But at least it seemed that the clan didn’t know the truth. Not yet. And Mitch at the moment didn’t seem to be buying it, not completely, anyhow. However, it wouldn’t take long for him to take a bite and catch on. The man wasn’t the type to not act, and stay silent neither. It’d be hell of a trouble if a whole Aldecaldo clan was breathing down one’s neck.

So many factors, so many people. “Fucking hell,” he groans as he finds himself working his hands from retrieving a packet from his pockets and pulling a cigarette and litting it with a lighter, hands working more than his lungs before it was filled with smoke. “Should’ve known she’d make a move that fast,” he muttered. Then speaking the truth, Johnny added, as if he was talking to V. “She’d tear the world down so long as she thought you were still in it—just to get you back.”

The woman was mad. And as he had made it known to V very early on, he actually liked Panam for V. And it was definitely better when her attention was on V, instead of him.

Fortunately, as luck would have it, over the next few days, he hasn’t had the encounter of meeting any Aldecaldo from the clan. In short, Panam didn’t have exact knowledge on his whereabouts and plans. And that works out just fine for him. What wasn’t working out was another matter entirely.

Johnny flicked the last of his cigarette into the gutter and shoved his hands into the longcoat’s pockets. V’s scent was slowly being replaced by the scent of tar and trail of carbon. Johnny had mixed feelings about it, but not enough since he quit bothering to. For the time being. He needed something to properly think.

He had sat hunched over the flickering holo-screen, eyes bloodshot, ashtray overflowing. V’s other shards scattered across the table, data chips half-read and discarded. Every contact she’d logged, every name that might have whispered the word “Blackwall,” he’d burned through. He had gathered and dumped all of V’s cache of contacts—cleaner than his ever was—that were categorized by runners, fixers, and names he barely recognized. 

All but one.

A file sat at the bottom, tagged in V’s handwriting: “Dogtown—Cassels (Careful).”

Johnny narrowed his eyes, cigarette smoke curling between his teeth. He remembered them — the twins, Aurore and Aymeric, netrunners with too much time, too much tech, and too much curiosity. The kind of people you didn’t look in the eye for too long.

Except V did. Smitten, if he could say so about V in that particular moment of black jack. The gonk.

But Johnny heed warnings. Especially from someone like V, as he came to trust her, and he came to learn better throughout his and V’s journey, both learning from the other. And with a word mentioning careful right next to a name, Johnny was without a doubt listening to it. Until he had to, which seemed fitting for the moment since he had exhausted every other option or lead that could set him down the path.

Voodoo Boys? Ghosted him, and threatened to cut his throat—or specifically V, due to her aligning with Netwatch, a corpo through and through; which was V, despite being a former—and drink his blood directly from it. Still bitter about the last biz, apparently. And Netwatch? Didn’t take him seriously, or more precisely warning him to back off before they got serious. Then the last on his list, Meredith Stout. She was in, except she had an asking price, no doubt a gig. 

However, Johnny wasn’t in for being a corpo’s lapdog. Then again, he hasn’t exactly used all his options. He thought back to the Cassels.

Johnny ground his teeth, dragging smoke deep into lungs that weren’t his. Every trail ended in static, unknown, or baseless possibilities. It was a big fat chance, and a whole lot of luck. And, as if answering whether what the chances were, a ping came.

Anonymous. Encrypted.

He cracked it open, pulse spiking. A face bloomed on the holo.

Aurore Cassel.

She smiled faintly, composed as ever, with a hint of a flirt, meanwhile her brother’s shadow was just visible behind her. Serious, relaxed and nonchalant. A complete opposite to his sister, lively, bubbly, and fucking dangerous.

“V,” she said, smooth and deliberate. The French in her accent either made it difficult for Johnny to understand, or outright confusing whether she was flirting. “You’ve been making noise. Asking questions. Questions most people wouldn’t dare breathe. Dangerous questions.” She tilted her head, curious. “And yet here you are. Alive. After Dogtown, after Reed, after Alex… we owe you. And I find myself curious. What is it you’re looking for?”

Johnny is cautious, senseless speaking may give her more than she might already know. But still, he has to take a chance—and between him and V, he’s the one that takes the risk. It’s his middle-name. Furthermore, while he hadn’t expected this. V’s name was the key, not his. 

They didn’t know who was really wearing her skin. 

So, he’ll turn this into his advantage.

“Repaying a debt, huh?” Johnny muttered under his breath, V’s voice being the one the asked, while his eyes narrowed and it was V’s that looked at Aurore through the holo-call. 

The shard pulsed once more, neither Aymeric or Aurore speaking, but a set of coordinates were delivered. Dogtown. Again.

The holo fizzled out, leaving the room dark and quiet again, just like before the twins made their appearance and involvement in whatever crusade Johnny had in mind in getting his friend back. With a tired sigh, he leaned back, letting V’s body sink into the chair, smoke curling from his lips. Her lips. 

“Well, V… ‘looks like your past is throwing me a bone. Let’s see if the black dog still has his use.”

Chapter Text

Dogtown. The underbelly of the underbelly of fractured corporate ‘Murica. Glad nothing seemed to have changed. Of course nothing would’ve. All Johnny had to do was reflect on the template of his life. He’d been nothing but a loud voice and a wild flame that made Arasaka flinch. And that—was simply that.

Also that he was at the center of a raid, again, at Arasaka. Both times being absolute nova. Not bad for a record—especially for a now-living-legend.

Then those feelings came up, they always do. It was starting to become a tug-of-war, using his heartstrings that he didn’t know he had—well they were V’s, the poor bleeding-heart bastard that she was—whenever he thinks anything about life. Because that was what he got, and what she didn’t get.

And oh, Johnny hated it. In many ways than Rogue might have imagined.

She should’ve been the one walking here, the one calling in debts, the one keeping her head down in a place like Dogtown. Instead, she was gone—burned up so Johnny Silverhand could get another crack at life. He’d told himself he didn’t ask for it. But guilt didn’t care about fine print.

Because the truth is—Johnny was happy to get a shot in life. And the truth is that he hated that he got it by V sacrificing herself for him to get it.

So here he was, back in the gutter, chasing after intel and ghosts.

Having parked his car somewhere concealed, and other obvious reasons, since the road into Dogtown and the roads inside, weren’t roads at all anymore—just a scar cut into the earth, littered with burned-out AV husks and half-collapsed barricades from the last time someone tried to “take back” this chunk of Night City. Kurts’ gunmen, or what seems to be in different warring factions after the man’s death, were all keeping a watchful eye from behind stacked crates, rifles hanging low but fingers tense against triggers. Johnny walked straight through, V’s longcoat collar high, cigarette smoke curling like armor, and the steady sounds of her boots on cement ground.

Johnny even passed some scavenger crews hunched over stripped cars, their chatter cutting off the second he came near. One group eyed him hard—chrome augments glinting under jury-rigged floodlights—but didn’t make a move. Maybe they saw something in his stride. Or maybe they just smelled trouble. Either way, they let him through.

However, the further he went, the heavier the air got—like breathing through ash. Dogtown’s neon wasn’t neon at all, apparent from the cheap LED strings hammered into walls, sputtering out half their light. Rust bled from rebar and steel beams. Someone was screaming two blocks down; someone else laughed in response. No one moved to help.

Though, as if on instinct, Johnny tightened his grip on the strap of V’s gun harness. Where his Malorian was equipped. And it was a reminder: this wasn’t his skin. These weren’t his hands. Because they were V’s—and V would have bolted and came running.

He took a deep inhale from his cigarette. His mind was set—only V’s the one he’s saving, and there weren’t others on the list. By the time he reached the gutted maglev station—the coordinates that Aymeric had sent him afterwards—the cigarette was gone, stomped flat on the cracked pavement.

And inside, the twins were waiting when he arrived, perched like predators on the skeletal remains of the maglev station. Aymeric leaned against a half-collapsed pillar, chrome arms folded, eyes sweeping shadows like he expected the whole city to pounce. Aurore sat on a slab of broken ferrocrete, neural ports pulsing faint blue, her attention locked squarely on him.

“V,” Aurore greeted, her voice calm but with a thread of caution woven through. “Didn’t think you’d still be walking after… well, everything.” The French in her voice was clearer than it was on the holo, and if Johnny was being honest, that’s a hundred times better. Johnny smirked, rolling his shoulders into Valorie’s skin with a swagger that felt half a size too big. “Takes more than a bullet or two to put me down.”

Aymeric gave a sharp laugh, humorless. “Or ten. Pretty sure you ran out of luck a dozen times over.” 

“Depends on the day.” The line came too fast, too cocky, and Johnny knew it. That wasn’t V. That was him. Aurore’s eyes narrowed just slightly, her head tilting as if listening to something only she could hear. A gesture so small most would’ve missed it. “You’ve changed,” she said, not unkindly. “Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

Johnny shoved his hands into the longcoat’s pockets, posture loose but pulse tight. He let silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate before killing it. “I need info. Blackwall. Deep dives, experimental shit. ‘Stuff that makes corpos soil themselves. ‘You got it?”

And just as Johnny expected, as it had been with the rest, the Voodoo Boys, Netwatch, that got their attention. Both twins froze in tandem. Aymeric’s jaw tensed, the faint whirr of his cyberware audible as his grip tightened around the pillar’s edge. Aurore’s glow dimmed, like even thinking about it made her systems recoil.

“You’re insane,” Aymeric said finally. His voice was like concrete ground under a boot. “Nobody touches the Blackwall. Not unless they’ve got a death wish.”

Johnny took a drag from his cigarette, then let it dangle between his fingers. “Good thing I’ve already died once.” His tone cut sharper than he meant, and for a second he swore he felt V’s chest tighten in protest.

Aurore tilted her head again, her gaze catching on him like a scalpel against skin. “You’re different. Now I’m certain. You’re not the way I remember. You sound… reckless. Though, it would be false to assume you hadn’t since we met somewhere like where we first met, yes?”

Johnny flashed a grin, Silverhand arrogance bleeding through. “Guess you’re finally noticing my good side.” A truth to cover a lie, he reckons.

Aurore didn’t laugh. She didn’t look away either. Her eyes lingered, dissecting, fascinated like she was examining a glitch in a perfect piece of code. 

Around them, Dogtown groaned. Militia patrols had thinned since Hansen’s fall, but the void he left was uglier than the man himself. Different gangs were carving up the carcass, and the air carried the echo of it—bursts of gunfire in the distance, a muffled scream, the shriek of tires on fractured asphalt. The maglev station was neutral ground, but neutral never lasted long here.

Aymeric spat to the side, impatience cutting through the tension. “You want a path through the Blackwall, you’ll need black-grade icebreakers. Shit straight off a corpo’s wet-dream project board. Prototypes. Unstable code. Stuff that fries your synapses just by looking at it. Even then, odds are you don’t come back. Nobody does.”

Johnny flicked his ash, boot tapping against ferrocrete in a rhythm too fast for calm. “Then we make it work. I’m not walking away.”

Aurore leaned forward, quiet, elbows resting on her knees, her ports pulsing faintly as if echoing her heartbeat. Then she spoke, “You sound like someone chasing a ghost. Is that what this is, V? Trying to pull something… or someone… back?”

Johnny froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. He masked it with a smirk, but Aurore didn’t miss the microsecond of stillness. Damn was this woman sharp and cold as a literal ice.

“Does it matter?” he shot back.

“Only if you expect us to follow you into hell,” she replied softly.

Aymeric grunted, unimpressed. “We don’t owe you that much.”

“No,” Aurore said, eyes still locked on Johnny. “But maybe we owe her.”

The name wasn’t said. Didn’t need to be. The three of them let the silence stretch, the ruin around them swallowing the words they didn’t dare speak. Maybe either one or the other was catching on, or maybe not. Johnny wasn’t sure. Though, his guts were saying that Aurore was onto something.

Then Johnny spoke, in V’s voice. He smirked, masking the tightness in Valorie’s chest. “Never was about owing. Just thought you two might like a chance to do something bigger than scraping Dogtown’s leftovers.”

Aymeric’s eyes narrowed, arms folding tighter across his chrome chest. “Bigger usually means dead. And so, hell.” But Aurore didn’t echo him. Instead, she leaned forward, her cheeks on her palm as she studied Johnny—or V—with a focus that made him itch. Not suspicion anymore—something else. Curiosity, now. Twice than before.

“You’re serious,” she said. “Not a bluff, not a job. You really mean to push past the Blackwall.”

Johnny shrugged. “I’ve been through worse walls.”

“No, you haven’t.” Aurore’s ports flickered brighter, her voice almost reverent. Sure, it sounded like she intended to mask it as a joke, a tease, definitely. But at the same time it wasn’t. “The Blackwall isn’t just code. It’s a prison. A scar on the Net. If you push through, you’re not just risking yourself — you’re risking whatever comes back with you.”

Near the end of it, there was an absence to the lightness in her voice. But not outright rejecting, or avoiding it. In which case her brother sensed it, who groaned, “Don’t encourage this. It’s suicide.”

But Aurore kept her eyes on Johnny, like she hadn’t heard her brother at all. “We have protocols, sniffer tools, code fragments we’ve never shared. Dangerous, unstable — but they might give you a tether. And if you want, I can run alongside you, monitor from inside. Keep you anchored.”

Johnny blinked. That wasn’t what he expected. Hell, it wasn’t what he wanted. “That’s not standard help.”

He knew it, Aymeric knew it, and hell Aurore knew it.

“No,” she admitted, almost smiling. “But you’re not standard anymore, V. And this gig? Definitely not.” Aymeric pushed off the pillar, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Are you out of your mind? You’d burn yourself for this?”

Aurore’s gaze didn’t waver. “If he’s going to try, someone needs to watch his back. Better me than letting him fry alone.” At that response to her twin, Johnny let out a short laugh, low and sharp, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Careful. I might start thinking you actually like me.” 

Aurore tilted her head, her ports pulsing with faint light again. “Maybe I like puzzles. And right now, you’re the strangest puzzle I’ve seen. Or something in that category.” Aymeric muttered something in French under his breath—the kind of curse that sounded heavy with years of keeping his sister alive. 

The silence after stretched taut, filled by Dogtown itself—the occasional distant gunfire, the rumble of scavver trucks, the crackle of neon sparking out above the station. Then, finally, Aymeric broke it, voice clipped. “Fine. We’ll help. But the second this spirals out of control, we cut the cord. No discussion.”

Johnny flicked his cigarette into the dust, watching the ember die. “Guess that’s all I can ask.”

Aurore, though—she didn’t look away. Not even when the last glow faded.

Chapter Text

The decision had been something, alright. And after a while of Aymeric and Aurore exuding a sense of nonchalant and eyeing him in silence, especially Aurore who switched her pose and was now sat with one knee tucked up against her chest, chin resting lightly, almost catlike, and her eyes darting between her brother and the merc—mostly the merc—that had everyone whispering the name, V, she finally spoke after another moment.

She breathed in, slow and deliberate, her lips parting like she’d been holding back a tide. “We’ll set up shop. Lay the groundwork. While you…” Her gaze lingered on Johnny, at V, for a half-second too long, searching, testing probably. “...Mon chéri, you find us the doors that need breaking for the meantime, yes?” 

Aymeric shot her a sidelong glance, brow furrowing. She didn’t look his way, probably enjoying having to infuriate her twin more than he already probably was. In response, Johnny only nodded, muttering, “Fine. That works.” Before anything else, he didn’t miss the gleam in Aurore’s eyes, or how her lips twitched at the corner, like she’d just claimed a victory nobody else recognized. And Johnny couldn’t get an angle on what this wild-fire was all about—just that she’s probably the closest he can get to a Netrunner that isn’t fucked in the head or fried in the head. 

‘Well, if either one isn’t true. Fuckin’ time can only tell if both don’t come true in the long run.’ Johnny thought as he made his way out to find the doors that needed kicking.

Drifting from the glittering high-rises down to the rust-pocked streets, into alleys reeking of fried synth-meat and desperation that was Night City. He slipped through bars where the air was heavy with stale smoke and cheap beer, with joytoys up and about, as he chased another ghost—a name plucked from memory. Falco. Came up once back when V was steering. A driver, a fixer, a survivor, from what he’d gathered. The thread itched at him until he couldn’t ignore it.

But that wasn’t all from what he’d found after nights in and out of the most rotten despicable places on Earth that Falco wasn’t all that was. Over conversation with different folks with either guns in their mouth for refusing to talk or with bleeding mouth or nose, a name turned up.

Lucy.

And as if the floodgates had been damned open, another name that he felt was familiar through V’s memories came to the forefront of his head. David Martinez. Johnny caught it first in a corner dive. Two edgerunners swapping stories, lowering their voices when they said the kid’s name, like it was sacrilege to speak it too loud. A legend, it seemed, the latest one at that before their time—his time and V’s. 

Furthermore, from what he’d gathered, Falco had indeed been his wheelman, his anchor. And Falco lived, and rumor has it so was Lucy.

Johnny felt it then, that tug—not nostalgia, but recognition. Legends leave scars on the city, and sometimes those scars line up. It’s just a matter if you’d see how little or nothing these legends actually made an impact. 

He groans, frustrated as his thoughts go back to that wasteland. To his grave.

Shaking the distractions aside, after a while and not even by the end of the day, eventually, Johnny had it: a line to Falco.

When the call connected, the voice on the other end was gruff, sandpaper worn. “...You again, huh? V.”

Johnny didn’t correct him. “Need a meet. Not on the wire. Face-to-face. I might need your friend’s help. She’s a Netrunner, I heard, and something along as borderline Arasaka thorn on their side. Thinking I’d like to meet her.” 

Immediately, Falco’s response was short and firm. “Bad idea. And where’d you learn that?” Johnny knew exactly that he was threading on thin ice by bringing up a sensitive topic, or most especially someone important to the man, but if Johnny still had his knack of getting what he wanted; he’d be able to. 

“Yeah,” Johnny’s low voice after an exhausting pursuit, muttered, as he took a deep drag on a cigarette that had already situated itself in between V’s lips. “Most of mine are. Bad ideas.” Then he let silence take over the call, a split moment, until he started again, “And I got it from talking mouths who knew people who have hard-ons for Arasaka. Most seemingly fans of your crew.”

The hesitation and wariness from Falco was biting on Johnny’s nerves, time was ticking, but he reigned his frustration in. The last thing Johnny wanted is to fuck up before it all even begins. 

Then Falco finally gave a response, “Well. Seeing that you fuckin’ stormed Arasaka, alone. And still remain with your head on your shoulder… alright. I’ll send you the coordinates.” the old driver relented. A meet was set.

Hours later, Johnny found himself in a greasy diner under a dead neon sign. The booths were cracked vinyl, the food smelled like engine oil mixed with something akin to salt. Not out of the ordinary. He sat alone, picking at a synth-burger, more thinking than eating as he eyes it with a blank look. Time must have gone by that he lost track and focus until:

The bell above the door jingled.

A familiar cowboy hat and a mustache that went along with it made it apparent to who it was; Cassidy walked right in. Behind him, a few more Aldecaldos—Bob, Teddy, and Carol—that he’s acquainted with through V. 

Instantly, if it wasn’t fear it was the fact that he was caught off-guard that he’d have the chance of encountering them here. As far as he was aware, the Aldecaldos weren’t that buddy-buddy but not hostile with the Mox. Regardless, his first instinct—hide, slip out, ghost them. He brought his head down low, the meal in front of him looking more interesting than anything at the moment, and he pulled the collar of V’s longcoat just a bit higher, heart hammering against ribs like it wanted to bolt.

Then—

“V!” 

Aurore’s voice. Clear. Cutting. The way she said it was too warm, too eager, like she wasn’t just calling a name but reaching out. She strode in, hands on her hips, a crooked grin pulling at her lips. She had found him. Of course she had.

Johnny froze. Every head in the diner turned. Cassidy’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a knife, recognition hardening into suspicion. Fuck.

Aurore reached the booth, resting her fingertips on the edge of the table, leaning down just slightly, close enough for Johnny to catch the faint citrus scent of her shampoo. “There you are,” she murmured, low but not low enough. “After updating me with the news, thought you could try to ditch me, mon amie?”

From Johnny’s peripheral vision, Cassidy’s chair screeched as he shoved back and stood. His boots clunked across the diner floor. The others followed, their presence filling the space with heat.

Johnny’s fingers twitched toward the pack of smokes on the table. He didn’t look up, not yet. He could feel Aurore’s gaze still on him, curious, questioning. But she wasn’t a fool not to recognize the approaching group behind them. And if he was certain, Johnny saw Aurore running codes—a familiar gesture that he’d come to know from V, if things were to go messy. 

In response, Johnny reached out, his hand—or technically V’s—landed on top of Aurore’s, stopping her from potentially flatlining V’s friends. Her eyes stared at him, confused and questioning, but after a split second, she nodded and stepped down. But not before Johnny could withdraw his hand that Aurore turned her hand over as she interlocked their fingers. And of course, with a smile on her face.

When Cassidy stopped by the booth, he folded his arms. His weathered face was a mask of disappointment, heavy with Panam’s shadow as he looked between them, and their hand interlocking. “You don’t look half as worried as you should,” he said, voice flat, almost accusing.

Johnny would have scoffed. But he doesn’t, instead he quietly and softly retrieves his hand from Aurore to pull out a cigarette, the tenth cigarette of the day, as he then flicks open the lighter, flame hissing—all the while making the Aldecaldos wait in silence. He lit it up, drew in a deep breath, and let the smoke trail lazily toward the ceiling. “Worry never got me much but wrinkles.”

Cassidy’s lips twitched when he heard, and the others behind had near or exact reaction. “That so? Panam’s been worried plenty.” Shit.

The name struck like a blade. He had no qualms with Panam, but knowing your friend’s unrequited love is literally turning mad finding them—it puts him in a difficult spot in the domain of feelings. But while his jaw tightened, his eyes stayed hooded, unreadable. He said nothing.

The others chimed in, or at least gave off the feeling, giving their thoughts vessels—frustrations, anger, accusations layered on accusations. ‘What happened to her?’ ‘Does V no longer give a shit?’ ‘Why does she look so detached?’ 

Johnny didn’t rise to it. Just stared, cigarette burning low, silence his shield. He wasn’t going to lash out, wasn’t going to let another wild card dictate his path. He’d done that dance before, and it left scars.

Cassidy spat a curse under his breath, shaking his head. “Guess we got our answer.” 

And just like that, they pulled back, storming out, leaving the smell of anger in their wake. The bell over the door jingled again, sharp as a gunshot. With the Aldecaldos gone, Johnny leaned back, exhaling smoke slowly, his hand tapping once on the table before going still.

Aurore stood from her side and slid into the booth beside him, chin resting on her palm, watching him with those sharp eyes that didn’t miss a twitch. She was way too close. “You didn’t run,” she said softly. Almost approving. Almost admiring.

Johnny met her gaze, expression tired. “Didn’t do much else either.”

“Sometimes,” she said, her smile faint but real, “not doing is still doing.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

Later, back at the twins’ base of operations—tables cluttered with wires, half-assembled rigs buzzing faintly—Aurore pushed closer to him again. She folded her arms, leaned forward, her eyes lit not just with curiosity but with something warmer. “So. Falco. You think he’ll help?”

Johnny’s gaze drifted, smoke curling from between his fingers. “Steady guy. And steady counts more than fire right now. If he bites, he’s our in.” Aurore tilted her head, studying him. Her smile was small, private, almost like she knew something he didn’t. “Steady’s good,” she said. “Steady’s… safe.”

Johnny muttered, almost to himself, “Steady’s all I’ve got left.”

And Aurore’s smile didn’t falter.

Chapter Text

V a l e r i e, " V "

On their way back to their home-base, the ride was silent with the comforting exception of Johnny’s car’s gentle yet growling roar on the street. It hummed softly, beautiful, and loud; a definite sign of how he felt inside. Despite the grandeur asshole outward appearance he retains and projects—Johnny’s growth of character was not amiss, not even to him—he is still a boiling pot, an active volcano that just simply learned to slow down. All thanks to a special someone.

However, feelings can’t be controlled. Unlike what V thinks, the corpo lifestyle and mindset still embedded into her after all her time out of Arasaka and having met him until till the end. The gonk. Though, as she had learned a lot from him, so has he. So, while he doesn’t agree—Johnny could damn well be sure that he could hide it.

Having seen and been seen by the Aldecaldos, and what luck that they were the veterans—it was obvious even to a psychotic nutcase that feelings kickstarted at the spot. Just seeing them, their faces, it made it hard to drown the guilt—as hard as it already was—and the world decided to double down. 

If Johnny made a promise he knew he’d break. It’d be if he said that he’d stop feeling the guilt. And if he did made a promise, it’d be a fucking lie. All things considered, the encounter brought him back to a possibly new low. Brought back to the terrible gut-wrenching dark shitty feeling, thoughts and whatnot. 

And it seemed that he wasn’t the only one aware of the black cloud over his head, as Aurore lowered the music in the car with her optics. “Y’know, didn’t gave you permission to tune my radio.” He turned and spared her a look, and she didn’t bother to look away or denied it—with only a smile on her lips and glinting smoldering eyes—before Johnny looked back on the road, shaking his head at her antics.

“Well, I certainly did not touch your radio. But yes, I did tune it since I did find it distracting—especially when the rush of the cold wind brings more comfort, don’t you think?” From his peripheral, Johnny shot her a side glance, his eyes hidden behind his iconic sunglasses that he’d wear only in certain times as Aurore’s eyes flickered in blue and then the window came down as followed. Immediately, and nonchalant, she brought her hand out and lay it lazily hanging outside on the door, feeling the breeze whisk through her hand, her eyes looking over the skyscraper of Night City.

In his mind, he agreed. Though, he’s not about to let her know that. So he remained quiet throughout their ride, enjoying the rush of wind that sounded like a storm quenching the magma of an erupting volcano inside him. 

“Ah, so nice of you sister to come back. And I had hoped you’d have good news…?” Aymeric all but said, as he eyed V’s expression that seemed to be in a mood, but he kept a distance all the same. After all, what’s a merc at her caliber going to do if she’s pissed off—honestly, he’d like to know. Though, preferably not in the blast radius.

“Good news, and met some bad news. Or a dozen.” Aurore spoke, soft and joking as always in her tone as she approached her brother, and let Johnny explain the rest, if he wanted. And silence was his answer.

“So the Black Wolf speaks nothing…” Aymeric said, followed by a sigh. “The Black Wolf?” At once, Aurore picked up the conversation, more especially due to the nickname. “This is a charming title, no? V?” 

Johnny refuses to join and encourage the fire, though, after a brief reconsideration, he agrees. It suited V. “Yeah, it is. Couldn’t be more fitting.” He grins, amused, proud and liking it. In fact, it’s almost as if it wasn’t just them—between V and Johnny—that realizes that they were either far apart or eerily a resemblance in certain aspects.

‘The Black Dog, and The Black Wolf. ‘Shit V, got your actual title on the streets.’

“Anyways, we’ve got a meeting. But meeting ain’t happening in the next twenty-four-seven, so stock up or get some blinks rest for your eyes before you fry someone’s synapse off.” 

Aurore shoots Johnny a raised eyebrow, as if feinting a look of confusion and innocence, “Oh my, burn someone’s synapse off? You think me so uncivilized?” She drops the farce, and gives her iconic smile before scoffing. “It’d be rightly so if it were my brother instead. Me? Putain (shit), I’m a girl scout.”

With a charming smile, she strode off, with a little more sway to her hips as she did. And Johnny noticed them, as did Aymeric as he shot his sister a disapproving look and then stared daggers at Johnny. With humor, Johnny gave him a wide fake smile that could’ve convinced others otherwise, and a middle-finger before going back outside. 

Left freed, alone, and a lot in his mind, Johnny found himself someplace familiar—a place he had bunkered down for a week. A week that had all initially felt like eons, it felt like. And now he’s back. The old block hadn’t changed much. Still smelled like piss and synth-food grease, still littered with busted bottles and broken families. Johnny stood across from the squat little building where the kid—Steve—used to hole up. He remembered having bought the guitar, strings sharp, tuned and clean. A gift. A lifeline. Or maybe just his way of dumping another piece of himself off into someone else’s hands.

Anyways, he had stared long enough that his fists started to clench. Wondered if the kid ever strummed it or if it was collecting dust in the corner, forgotten, just like the people who left it behind. Like how he was, except he wasn’t left behind. Not exactly. But it sure does feel like it. ‘Damn it, V. Who’da knew I’d miss you like you were half of me, huh?’

‘And if it isn’t for your wild pussy crush on a hardcore Aldecaldo, and leaving her to hunt and flame my ass. Jeez, V, we both sure had it with strong women.’ The thought burned hot red when the smoke finally lit as he let out a small, tiny smile.

Finding himself in a good mood, he found the unit and knocked on the door. In fact, he actually sort of felt good in a long while, if not just pleasant. Maybe he’d teach the kid a few tips, an advice or two, or play one of his songs back in his day for the aspiring musician. 

And then when the door opened and some punk stumbled out—wrong man, wrong face, wrong everything—Johnny’s chest locked tight. It didn't matter. He grabbed him, slammed him hard against the wall. The rage came easy, too easy, like muscle memory.

“You touch that guitar?!” His voice was a growl, venom cracking through his teeth.

The guy sputtered, tried to choke out something, but Johnny’s hand was already on his throat. He squeezed, hard enough to watch the panic set in, the flailing arms.

And for a second—one fucking second, a reason, a word, an excuse—he wanted to snap it. End it. Prove nothing’s changed.

But as he looked in the man’s eyes, it wasn’t even Steve’s asshole dad. Wasn’t even anyone he knew. Just another poor bastard caught in the blast radius of Johnny Silverhand. With an effort, he let go. Shoved the guy to the ground like trash, and stumbled back himself.

“Fuck…” His voice cracked, but only the hallway heard it, and the few bystanders who were out and those that looked outside from behind their doors in their unit. He dragged his hands down his face, felt the tremor in his fingers. Kerry, Rogue, Alt—friends, V, sacrifices. All of it. And here he was, choking out strangers in piss-soaked apartment.

Kid probably just moved out, his family having not enough eddies to make rent. Probably. 

But. Was he that fucked?

The answer hung in the silence: yeah. Yeah, he was.

Chapter Text

The bottom of a bottle was his friend, a smoke to accompany it made him buzz. However, a girl along with the mix made it ‘A-tier fucking’ game. 

After the shitfest at the apartment, and losing himself even in just those seconds, the day blurred into night and before he knew it he was at Lizzie’s Bar. And what a great choice he made—him and his intoxicated fucked up mind—that he went to the place that it all started. Where he relives V’s memories and the fate that was sealed because of an ambitious, poorly planned, and lot of shady shits happening behind the scene screwed her up and her friend, Jackie. 

Amateurs. And absolute gonks that had bleeding hearts and wore them on their sleeves. Not that it was that that truly factored why it all went to hell. But rather, yeah, they were amateurs surrounded by folks that had their own agenda and motives.

‘Still… you’d have gone far if only you had your wits about. ‘Could smell DeShawn’s scheme and plotting from miles out. Damn, V.’

Johnny’s thoughts were soon interrupted as a hot kiss took hold of his attention, wet lips hungrily latching onto him, soft smooches and pecks before attacking his mouth once again. The taste of alcohol, smoke, and cherry sweetness from her made him buzzer than he already was. 

Her voice was teasing but not caring, not asking, and just couldn’t be bothered. Just the way he liked it. Meaningless. Forgettable. Indifferent. 

And it was the good fuckin’ distraction that he wantonly needed. Before long, they had gone from simple kisses by the bar, to the lady’s fuckin’ home with their clothes removed. To be honest, this was a new sensation all over, he felt hot and drowning with an overwhelming sensation. After all, this was V’s body.

A different person, completely. And honestly, it surprises him that V’s body was actually sensitive and horny as fuck. The gonk probably mastered some meditation or some weird shit to suppress or control her urge, because before he even noticed it, their bodies were already smashed against each other, sweat and saliva mixed as the girl softly bit V’s soft skin.

Inexperienced in a battlefield, Johnny was guided and completely at the mercy as the woman took control, and when he felt her take charge, he let her. In the back of his mind, this was V’s. He’d expected it, he actually did, and now he was firsthand witnessing and experiencing it.

The night blurred after that. Soft neon lights melting into the curve of a hip, laughter cut short by kisses, and bodies and sensitive spots earned hot breathy moans and spurting good release—once, twice, he lost count. Until he fell asleep.

When the haze finally broke, Johnny woke sprawled on stained sheets, head pounding, throat raw. A dull hum of music vibrated through the walls, too familiar. Lizzie’s.

“Morning, rockstar.” 

It probably meant nothing. But the use of ‘rockstar’ made him stir awake and all sense of drowsiness went and gone. The voice was lazy, false sweetness, and when he turned, there she was. Purple-blue hair, baseball bat leaning against the wall within arm’s reach. The Mox girl from Lizzie’s door. Her smirk was wide, sharp, like she’d won some bet he didn’t remember making.

Johnny groaned, before he sat up slow. “Fuckin’ hell… what’d you do to me?” V’s voice said, as he contemplated whether it was the best sex for a long while, or the most terrible awful-grinding action in a long while. Either way, he regretted nothing.

Meanwhile, as he gathers himself and his thoughts, she laughed—though, this time, actually genuinely laughed. “Please. I didn’t grill you that hard.”

And reflecting on that genuinity, he also lets out a genuine smile. While it was meaningless, forgettable, and not so indifferent now. They talked, but nothing heavy. Didn’t need to be. Just jokes, light jabs, her rolling a cigarette while he stole a drag. Two broken people making fun of their cracks without bothering to patch them up.

A day spent living without worries. Yeah.

And somehow, it was enough. A breather. Like air through the ash.

With the thought of a day well spent, Johnny took notice of the sun that was barely crawling over the skyline when Johnny finally staggered out of bed and looked outside the window. Disliking half-ass excuses to ditch, Johnny opted for the blunt truth, “Gotta’ hit the road, doll. Thanks for the night.” And with a foxy smile on V’s lips, she reciprocated as the woman eyed V’s body hungrily as Johnny gathered the clothes and wore them before making his way out.

Stepping out with the shades back on, and black longcoat keeping him warm, he rubbed at the headache pounding behind his eyes before he patted down for his keys. Before he froze.

The space where his car should’ve been sat empty. Just asphalt, oil stains, and silence. He was certain he was so facefucked that he’d forget where he parked his car, much less leave it somewhere. No.

Johnny’s jaw locked tight, V’s hands turning into hard clenched fists. Because he knew who the culprits were. Of course he did.

“Fuckin’ Aldecaldos…” he muttered, dragging the smoke hard into his lungs before spitting it out in a growl.

If it’d been anyone else, he’d already be lining up names, ready to burn every last one down until the car came back. But this wasn’t anyone else. No—this was them. Which meant Panam. Which meant a confrontation was coming whether he wanted it or not.

And part of him hated how much he did.