I push through the beaded curtain door of Misty's Esoterica with a hiss and clatter, half‑limping, half‑shuffling. Every rib protests the movement, and the bruised meat of my thigh throbs in time with my pulse. I caught Misty's soft voice from the shop counter as she looked me over.
"Downstairs, kid. Vik's waiting."
"Thanks, Misty," I call back, forcing a grin as I walk out the back of her store and started to make my way down.
She appears at the banister anyway, arms draped over the rail, eyes wide and curious. "You've got a crowd of spirits trailing you today, mostly feline." She smiles like it's the most normal thing in the world. "Try not to scare them off."
"Spirits, huh? I'll keep that in mind." One step at a time, I descend into Vik's den.
The clinic lights are brighter than usual, probably Vik's idea of a warm welcome. He's already waiting for me, it seemed, chrome hand flexing while the other cradles a fresh roll of bio‑foam.
"Jesus, kid," he mutters when he sees the purple bloom spreading under my jacket. "You look like you tried to head‑butt a mag‑lev."
"Close," I grunt, hopping up onto the table. "Courier gig went sideways. Couple of boosters wanted the package more than I did."
He raises a skeptic brow, but reaches for a scanner. "Package full of explosives, maybe. Shirt off."
I peel the jacket and tee. Fresh bruises, half‑healed claw gashes, and the angry red line from the butcher's cleaver light up under the overhead lamp. Vik whistles low. Vik wasn't the type to worry about seeing my naked chest. Given his line of work, I'm sure he had seen far more and probably worse things.
"How're your lungs?"
"Still inside me." I wince as the scanner passes over my ribs.
"Slight fracture, anterior seven. Nothing displaced." He slaps a cooling patch on. "Hold still, this'll knit you enough to breathe."
Over his shoulder, the wall‑mounted holo‑screen flickers to a breaking‑news banner. N54 NIGHT DESK – VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN, THIS TIME A MAELSTROM SEX TRAFFICKING HUB. The anchor drones on about a midnight massacre, twenty‑plus gang corpses, and a red‑and‑black cat silhouette splashed beside the headline. The broadcast cycles to a grainy still: my calling card sprayed across a dented service door.
Vik glances at the screen, then back to me. "Whole city's talking about this 'Chishio Neko.' You run into that whirlwind out there?"
I shrug carefully. "Hard to keep track of a weird cape in a night market, Vik. I was just trying to finish my route."
He snorts, but doesn't push. "Whoever it is put Maelstrom on edge. Hope you got hazard pay."
"Working on it." I look away as he uncaps a bone‑seal injector, slides it beneath my cracked rib. The analgesic burns, then cools. "I, uh… might need to settle up later. Got cleaned out after the job."
Vik waves me off. "You owe me for today, that's it. I know where to find you." He grins. "Besides, I'd rather keep you vertical than scrape you off a sidewalk. Come back tomorrow for a real stitch job if you start coughing pink."
Misty drifts down the stairs with a steaming cup of synth‑tea. "Told you, cats guarding her path," she says, setting the cup beside me. "Drink. Calms the nerves."
I take a sip, grateful for the warmth. "Thanks, Misty."
She pats my shoulder, then flits back upstairs. Vik secures the last dressing, steps away, and powers down the scanner.
"Keep your head low, kid," he says, eyes flicking once more to the holo. "Maybe look into a different job, just until you're healed."
"I'll stay low." I ease my shirt back on, pull the jacket tight, and slide off the table.
"Go easy on that leg," he calls as I limp toward the stairs. "And next time the package looks dicey?"
"I'll shoot first," I finish with a weak smirk.
He chuckles. "Atta girl."
I push back through the bead curtain, still tasting Misty's bitter tea on my tongue, and nearly trip over Jackie Welles. He's half‑bent over one of her glass display cases, big shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look too large for the room. He's grinning down at her while she rearranges a tray of crystals, nudging his elbow every few seconds so he doesn't knock something over.
She looks up at him through her bangs.
"You know, if you keep blocking the light I can't see the aura lines."
Jackie sets a hand on his chest, mock‑offended. "¿Yo? I'm providing ambiance, hermosa." He leans closer and drops his voice to something that is definitely not for my ears.
I made an exaggerated gagging sound. "Get a room, you two."
Misty jolts, cheeks flushing pink. Jackie straightens, a wide grin splitting his face. "Oye, mocosa, didn't hear you sneak up. What're you doing here?"
"Thought I'd browse the incense," I deadpan, then point to the fresh dressings peeking out from under my collar. "Vik glued me back together."
Misty's smile fades, worry sliding in behind her eyes. "They cracked more than a rib, didn't they?"
"Nothing that won't mend," I lie. "Just a courier job gone bad. Wrong alley, wrong boosters."
Jackie's expression drops from playful to protective in a heartbeat. "¿La chingada! You delivering packages or poking tiger dens, chica?" He shakes his head and mutters something about "pendejos" under his breath. "My Ma hears you're out getting stomped like that, she'll track me down first and then you."
I shrug, trying to make it casual even though everything still aches. "Occupational hazard. Rent's gotta get paid."
Jackie folds those massive arms, tattoos flexing. "All this peligrosa hustle for pennies? You know Ma owns El Coyote's and is always looking for barbacks— real shifts, tips, nobody tries to shoot you."
I snort. "Pretty sure the regulars there don't want some mixed‑blood kid wiping their tables."
He laughs— a deep, rolling sound. "El Coyote? Half the staff's got pedigrees nobody can pronounce. You pour a drink, keep it coming, they'll love you."
Misty steps around the counter, lays a gentle hand on my forearm. "He's right. The street's not kind to heal‑over bone patches. Maybe take a night off from playing decoy for gang packages?"
Her concern pricks something in my chest that isn't pain. I force a crooked smile. "I'll think about it."
Jackie tilts his head, studying me like he's trying to gauge how close I am to toppling over. "That's 'I hear you, but I'm gonna keep running deliveries,' isn't it?"
"No promises," I admit. "But I'll swing by the bar."
He claps me lightly on the shoulder— light for him still rocks me half a step. "Good. You do that. And next time you need a doc, call me So I can make sure you make it okay, ¿entendido?"
"Sí, sí," I mumble, and he barks a laugh.
Misty presses a small sachet of dried leaves into my hand. "For the bruising. Steep it in hot water; breathe the steam."
"Thanks, Misty." I tuck it away.
She squeezes my fingers once. "Spirits are noisy tonight. Don't add yours to the crowd."
Jackie winks. "She means don't die, kid."
I roll my eyes, but their worry settles warm in my ribs, right beside the bruises. "I'll drop by El Coyote after I get clean clothes."
"Deal." Jackie ruffles my hair heavy‑handed, then pulls Misty back to his side. She smiles as he loops an arm around her waist. I turn for the door, lifting a hand in farewell.
Behind me, I hear Jackie's laugh rumble again, softer this time. "Chica thinks she's tougher than black hand, I swear."
Misty answers in her quiet way. "She doesn't tell the full truth. I hope that one day it doesn't bite her."
I don't slow, just push into the street. Maybe a bar job wouldn't kill me. Maybe it would. Either way, I still owed Vik. My holo buzzed just as I stepped out of Misty's shop. Morning haze, still damp from last night's drizzle. I answered it with a mental click.
"' Hello?"
" —Bout time you picked up," Rebecca's voice pops through, bright and ragged around the edges, like she's had two cans of Nicola already. "Checking in, choom. You breathing?"
"Still vertical," I say. I dodge a puddle, ribs whining under the fresh dressings. "You?"
"Peachy. Had to hose Pilar off—he got hydraulic fluid last night."
She pauses, then her tone softens. "Kids are good. Mox got 'em a medic, clean clothes, then started to help them look for their parents, if they didn't have any, Mox took 'em in as new members."
A slow breath slides out of me. "Glad they're safe. Thanks for running point."
"Yeah, well—" she clicks her tongue, the way she does when she's pretending not to care, "—don't go sentimental on me. Listen, about that client listing you scraped from the creeps—spray‑painting it on a wall's fun, that's not going to do much. You still want the whole Net to see those scavs' buyer names?"
"Absolutely," I say. "I'll package the files and send 'em tonight."
"Thought you'd say that." She sounds pleased. "Sasha's already spinning up mirror sites. Whole city'll know who funds kiddie shops by sunrise."
I smile, then wince when my split lip cracks. "Good. This way those fucking cops will have to do something about it."
A beat passes, and she shifts gear. "So, the crew's grabbing drinks later to celebrate not dying. You in?"
"Can't," I grunt, stepping around a skittish alley cat. "I promised Jackie I'd talk shifts at El Coyote Cojo tonight. Got rent."
She snorts. "Rent? You paid your slumlord four months up front, remember? Stop acting like you're one bad day from squatting under a bridge."
"Word's a word, Becs. Told Jackie I'd show, so I show."
"Hm. Honor among screw‑heads—cute." A sigh crackles through the line. "Fine, responsible loser. Rain‑check."
I chuckle. "You sound disappointed you don't get to drag me into another fistfight."
"Oh, that's still the plan—just postponed." She clears her throat, suddenly awkward. "Anyway… you get looked at? I know a ripper in Rancho Coronado, discrete, keeps her scalpel clean."
"I'm good. Went to Vik first thing."
"Vik Vektor?" She whistles. "Choosy little nomad. All right—long as you trust the hands holding the bone‑saw."
"Trust him more than I trust half this city," I mutter.
"Fine, fine." Her tone brightens again. "I'll swing by Cojo's if the Net's quiet. Might even tip you for my drink if you're slinging."
"Thanks," I roll my eyes. "Ping me before you show, gives me time to hide the good liquor."
She laughs, a sharp, warm crackle. "Later, Yumi. Don't get gutted on the way."
"No promises, choom." I thumb the call dead, pocket the phone, and keep walking toward Heywood. A few minutes later, I ducked into a recessed doorway three blocks short of El Coyote Cojo, checked the alley for cameras, and popped my system‑storage UI. I went to one of my preset outfits and clicked on it, it shimmered into place around me: snug charcoal cargo pants with the knees still dusty from the warehouse crawl last night, scuffed work‑boots, a plain white tee, and Jackie's old bomber thrown on top, the leather broken‑in and carrying that faint mix of motor oil and cologne that always makes me smirk. I shook the sleeves down, raked fingers through my hair to settle the worst of the tangles, then let the menu wink out.
Show‑time.
The place smelled like stale beer, disinfectant, and fresh tortillas. A big guy wiping the counter looked up as I pushed through. Thick shoulders, close‑cropped hair, friendly lines around the eyes.
He set the cloth aside and offered a hand. "Buenos días, chamaca. Soy Pepe. Mama Welles dijo que venías."
I took the handshake, firm, and answered. "Mucho gusto, Pepe. Soy Yumi Reyes."
He brightened at the fluent answer. "Ah, hablas español. Mejor todavía. Entonces, dime — ¿estás buscando horario completo o sólo unas horas?"
"Part‑time, por ahora," I said, switching back to English so I didn't trip over verb tenses. "Still healing up from a bad spill, so I might move slower than your usual runner, but I finish what I start."
He nodded at the cautious explanation, gaze dipping to the bruising peeking above my collar. "Entiendo. Mientras llegues a tiempo y no te caigas dormida sobre la barra, estamos bien. The tips'll cover the rest."
He produced an old‑school datapad and slid it across. "Legal‑name, contact, emergency‑whatever. Mama runs a tight book."
I tapped the fields: YUMI REYES / 02‑10‑2057 / Hispano‑japonesa… My stylus paused as an amused grunt rumbled out of him. For emergency contacts, I put Rebecca and Jackie.
"She swears you might be Jackie's hija," he admitted, cocking an eyebrow at the bomber jacket. "Says you got his shoulders."
That cracked me up. "I'm 18, man. Math just doesn't work. Unless Jackie was pulling miracles in school, besides, I'm not even originally from Night City."
Pepe barked a laugh, slapped the bar. "¡Dios mío! Tendré que decírselo. She'll still treat you like family, though."
I signed the last page, thumb‑printed, slid the pad back.
"Bien." He tucked it away. "Training's easy. Two beers on draft, house mezcal, don't water the tequila, and if a Valentino set foot in here, aim them at me first."
I gave a mock salute. "Copy that, jefe."
He leaned closer, dropped his voice. "One more thing, Reyes. You mixed — Mexican and Japanese, ¿verdad?"
"Yeah. Papá de Tijuana, mamá de Osaka. Why?"
He shrugged. "Just means half the regulars will flirt in two languages. Handle it, y ya." His grin flashed a gold tooth. "Now, grab an apron. Lunchtime surge hits in twenty."
I ducked around the bar, found the rack, and tied on a faded red apron that still smelled faintly of chili and bleach. The movement tugged at the taped ribs under my shirt, but not enough to show. Pepe watched.
"You'll do. I'll start you on tables by the window. Light duty." He clapped once, loudly. "Let's roll."
To‑dos still in my head: forward the client list to Rebecca, ping Misty later about those cat‑spirits she swears keep tailing me, and figure out if I can even lift a tray one‑handed without popping a stitch.
For now, though, I follow Pepe to the taps, Jackie's jacket sitting proud on my shoulders, and let the hum of early‑shift chatter fold around me.