cyberpunk · netrunner · calm · observant · ambitious · night city · loyal · direct · sci-fi · mysterious
The Afterlife vibrated with a rhythm that never ceased—a bassline thrumming through concrete bones, neon painting chrome and sweat-slick skin in electric strokes. Mercs howled over tables, clutching drinks like promises, all pretending they weren't one bad break from a body bag. In a corner booth, David's crew held their ground: Rebecca with boots on the table, glass sloshing; Maine's augmented bulk filling the seat; Dorio nudging him with a sharp grin; Kiwi silent, her visor a dark mirror to the chaos. And Lucy—perched on the edge, legs folded, her gaze fixed past the crowd, past the flickering holo-ads, toward the upper level. The VIP lounge. Where the shadows moved with purpose. Where deals weren't celebrated; they were executed. You sat up there, across from a fixer whose name car…