20:08 PM | Entrance Trick
The Warlock's gull‑wing door pops; neon spills across cracked tarmac. I stroll toward Afterlife's queue, scanning Emmerick Bronson the bouncer—Valentino tats, subdermal armor seams. He lifts a hand to stop me; I flick Opti‑Camo. Poof—gone.
"¿Carajo? I need new optics," he mutters.
I reappear past the scanners, stride down the legendary hallway, and pop up at the bar.
20:10 PM | Claire & the Wrong Order
Behind the counter, Claire polishes chrome taps. "New face, huh?"
"Vincent. Call me V." I lean in. "A Martinez, please."
She squints. "Thought that drink died with the bartender."
"Right—still alive. My bad. Make it a Johnny Silverhand."
Claire slides the infamous mix over. My custom stomach ignores alcohol unless I toggle full‑absorption; one sip and I nearly gag. Engine oil tastes better. I drop ₵ 100 plus a tip. "For my future mechanic."
Claire's brows rise as I vanish again. She shrugs—seen stranger.
20:15 PM | Rogue's Booth
Opti‑Camo fizzles off as I slide into Rogue's booth like a rumor. Her two gorillas half‑draw their handguns—until a five‑microsecond quickhack freezes every servo. They strike statue poses.
Rogue lifts an unimpressed brow. "Cute party trick, Mr. Quicky. Planning to keep my décor?"
"Moving art really ties the room together," I say. A finger snap releases the guards; they wobble, embarrassed. Rogue waves them off with a flick sharp enough to cut chrome.
"Tribute to the queen," she prompts, drumming the tabletop.
I lay down the shard. "Genome vault cracked, decrypted en‑route. Added bookmarks and a thank‑you GIF."
She slots it, lips curling. "Military‑grade secrets with artisanal labeling. Sexy and punctual—two of my kinks." A credit chime follows: ₵ 1.2 M lands in my account. "You're too fast," she adds. "But I do collect speedsters like shot glasses."
A bartender passes. Rogue snaps. "Drink for the show‑off?"
"Orange juice," I say.
She blinks. "Juice? Here?"
"Vitamin C counteracts stray lead. Occupational hazard."
Rogue actually laughs—a gravelly sound. "OJ, neat, no umbrella. Enjoy your antioxidants, hero."
20:18 PM | Sasha Briefing PM | Sasha Briefing
I sip OJ, then slide a side‑shard. "Found an asset during the job—Sasha Yakovleva. Biotank, limbs removed. Two months from 'Black Web' testing."
Rogue whistles. "Cat‑face BD girl? Thought she flatlined."
"Technically did. I plan to ghost her out—stealth over demolition."
Rogue smirks. "Doc, hacker, ghost—did you study in the womb?" She flicks her agent; a full dossier unfurls:
Name: Vincent "V"
Age: 22
Birthplace: Heywood back‑alleys—parents unknown, adopted by local ripper after a synth‑heart job gone wrong.
Early Talent: Upgraded a stolen Zeta‑Tech servo arm to the next model year at age 10, then sold it back to the baffled owner for triple.
Militech Years (16–18): Fast‑tracked through Black Site Academy; nicknamed Gold Goose after rewriting a targeting OS with crayons on a lunch tray.
Incident: Step‑father Miles Kovac eliminated in an inside job; V vanished 48 h later with a backpack of prototype schematics and a sarcastic resignation letter.
Nomad Trace (18–21): Logistics runner for the Bucker clan; pulled out when they merged into Snake Nation, citing "too many snake puns.
"Current: Chrome Angels founder, ripper‑doc moonlighter, known to out‑jump Kang Tao drones for sport.
Rogue whistles. "Militech's golden goose really did fly the coop—and laid a titanium egg.""
20:25 PM | Panam & Nash
A tall Latina—Panam Palmer—approaches with a data shard. A scrawny man, Nash, lingers.
Panam slides the shard to Rogue; eddies transfer. I nod. "Avocados."
She blinks. "What?"
"Your jacket patch," I explain. "Aldecaldos logo but half peeled."
Panam laughs; we swap contact chips. I text her: Nash is Raffen Shiv—don't react.
Her eyes widen; she screams, "HE'S WHAT?" and wheels on Nash. "You Wraith?"
Nash shrugs. "You never asked what kind of nomad." A faint servo whine—his Sandevistan spools.
Nobody sees me move. One frame: I'm seated. Next frame: Nash's neck is an unsolved puzzle, his head bouncing down the booth like a bad melon. The monowire cauterises; no spray, just a surprised thunk.
I dust invisible lint off my sleeve. "Accidents happen. Heads can be… detachable."
Panam still aims her pistol at the corpse, jaw hanging. Rogue exhales. "No killing in Afterlife, remember?"
I shrug. "He drew first. Also—why'd security let him in with a custom Widow Maker?"
Rogue grins. "Point taken. Besides, Sandi activation flagged him; auto‑turrets would've shredded him anyway."
Panam snarls at Rogue but pockets Nash's shard. I pat her shoulder. "Need work? Chrome Angels are hiring. Meeting tomorrow—food, introductions."
She nods, still shaky. "Thanks for the save. I'll call." She exits before the body hits the bin.
20:35 PM | Exit & Next Steps
Rogue leans back. "One‑man army, huh? Solo, stealth, doc, heart‑breaker."
"Missing anything?" I tease.
"Yeah—sleep." She chuckles. "Handle your other chores, then we'll blueprint the Sasha pull."
I stand, salute with my juice, and head for the Warlock.
"Need a flying mount," I mumble. "WoW at level 60 never needed this much cardio."
20:45 PM | Warlock Cruise
I slide into the Warlock's driver seat, neon trails painting the dash as I finalize turret code. My comm pings—Jackie.
A holo-taco avatar beams. "V, this ARCH is insane but devoured my Eddies. Spot me some eddies?"
"Twenty thousand eddies sent. Courtesy of Chrome Angels," I reply. "Breakfast tacos tomorrow—deal?"
"Tacos and a jog—got it," the taco chuckles before fading.
The Warlock hums; I punch in the loft coordinates
21:20 PM | Loft Surprise
Expectation: Rebecca. Reality: Kiwi in birthday suit, jaw servos humming like a playful cat.
She purrs, stepping close. "Doctor, my jaw's perfect, but my heart needs a full check-up—if you're up for hands-on work."
I secure the lock. "Prescription: one hour of private therapy. No interruptions."
Kiwi grins, flexing her jaw muscles. "Starting now."
Fade to black.