astralissky

[astralissky]

A New Project - Part 3

Summary: After an exhausting day, V senses something is wrong as she returns home: the door is ajar, and a heavy silence fills the air inside. Caught between tension and survival instinct, she braces for the worst. What she didn’t expect was this unexpected presence…

Warnings: MDNI, yandere themes, manipulation, possessiveness, light explicit content (touching/intimacy), verbal and psychological violence, vulgar language, angst, slow burn, existential themes, emotional tension.

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Hey! Dropping parts 2 and 3 on the same day for the impatient ones out there. The two routes I’m working on will come later, along with a short text to explain V’s choices. For now, enjoy part 3 – the story keeps rolling. Yeah, see you soon!

<- Part 2

(The choices will be at the very end of the text)

The sharp click of the door behind her echoed in an unusual silence. The house lights were on. Bad sign. V froze, her fingers tightening around her gun. She took a deep breath, then, in a swift motion, hit the wall switch. The apartment plunged into darkness.

The silence grew heavier.

She slid against the wall, her knees bending until they almost brushed the floor, her back pressed to the cold surface. Her senses kicked into overdrive. No implants to analyze silhouettes, no augmented overlay to detect movements in corners. Just her instincts, her steady breath, and the weight of her gun.

She moved slowly, crouched low, hugging the wall like a shadow. Each step was deliberate, muffled. Her eyes searched the dark for any glint of movement, any anomaly. Her ears strained for the faintest sound—a rustle, a foreign breath, a creak of wood.

Nothing.

For a moment, she thought of Johnny.

No.

If it were him, she would’ve heard sarcastic remarks, insults for the sake of it, or he’d already be leaning in the corner, hands in his pockets, smirking like he owned the place. Silence wasn’t his style.

Misty?

Ridiculous. Misty would have knocked, or waited in the garden. Sneaking in like a thief wasn’t her thing.

So who?

V tightened her grip on the gun. Her left hand pressed against her right knee, as if to anchor her thoughts, while her foot tapped almost imperceptibly against the floor—a nervous tic she tried to suppress.

Her gaze swept over the entrance. The hallway, with its scattered pairs of shoes, was undisturbed. Further in, the crates she had left with Johnny’s stuff were still in place. But something in the air felt off.

She approached the short steps leading down to the main floor. Three, four steps, no more. The diffuse glow of the LED lights in the living room—red, blue, purple—still seeped through the doorway. She hadn’t turned them off, and they gave the space an eerie, almost festive air. A party with no guests.

To the left, the office—her comms corner, where she sometimes scribbled notes and contracts. To the right, the living room, wide and neatly arranged, except for a few displaced cushions. She gave it a quick glance. No movement.

She stood still for a few seconds, listening.

That gnawing feeling crawled back over her skin. Someone had been here. Someone good.

Her security system hadn’t triggered. Her drones hadn’t picked up a thing. That meant one thing: whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing. They had bypassed her defenses—or killed them—before she even stepped inside.

A professional.

She pressed forward again, her body leaning slightly, gun raised and steady. Each step was quieter than the last.

V swept every corner of the living room. Empty. Not a breath, not a shadow. The silence screamed in her ears. She’d killed all noise—the LEDs, the TV, even the hum of the ventilation. The tiniest floorboard creak would stand out like a gunshot.

A sound.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Upstairs.

Her head snapped up, eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was no way she’d take the stairs—too obvious. If someone was waiting, she’d be caught like a rabbit in a snare. No. She needed another way up.

Without hesitation, she headed back toward the sliding glass door that opened onto the garden.

The cold night air hit her as soon as she stepped outside. Her breathing grew quieter, more deliberate. She crouched, eyes lifting to the upper balcony. A calculated jump, a sharp push off the metal railing, and her fingers hooked onto the balcony bar like steel claws. Her arms trembled under the strain, but she pulled herself up, pressing flat against the concrete wall to vanish into the shadows.

Once on the first-floor balcony, she dropped to her knees and cast a quick glance through the slightly open window of her bedroom. Empty.

What she’d heard must have come from the other side of the floor—the recreation room. Bad sign.

She slipped inside without a sound, her steps cushioned by the carpet. For a moment, she ducked behind her bed, minimizing her silhouette, ready to strike.

That’s when she saw the figure.

A man. Broad-shouldered. Facing away.

No clue who it was. She’d met too many guys with that build to tell from just that.

V moved slowly, each step calculated like a whisper on the floor. Her left hand reached for one of the empty Solar Pop cans sitting on the dresser. The cold metal against her fingers, she leaned slightly forward, judging the distance. One breath, a sharp toss.

The can rolled across the floor and clinked against a piece of furniture—clean, precise, just enough to draw attention. The figure turned slightly, startled.

V crept closer from behind, gun raised, her voice low but cutting:

“Don’t turn around. Eyes on the can.”

V stayed crouched, the weapon steady between her hands, the barrel aimed squarely at the intruder. The moonlight reflected off the metal, briefly illuminating her narrowed eyes. She tried to make out his face in the dim light, but the only sharp silhouette she saw… was her own, mirrored in the hallway glass.

Her breath remained slow, measured. No room for hesitation.

She pressed lightly on the trigger, a silent reminder that she wasn’t bluffing.

“Who sent you?” Her voice sliced through the silence.

A pause. Nothing.

“What the hell are you doing here? And how did you get past my security?”

A low chuckle answered her—deep and restrained. The man straightened a little but stayed on his knees.

“Always straight to the point. Can’t say I’m surprised…”

That voice.

V blinked, her memories snapping together in a split second. Another night, another stand-off, the same calm but commanding tone.

Her grip on the gun tightened.

“… Reed?”

A faint, amused breath. “Bingo. And to think, the first time we met, I was the one pointing a gun.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Guess the student outshines the master, huh?”

“Hah… very funny.” His tone was dry, but she could hear a hint of a smile.

V finally eased her hold. She kept the gun trained on him for a few more seconds, just to be sure, then lowered it in a firm motion. With a tilt of her arm, she signaled him to stand. Reed obeyed slowly, his hands still behind his head. She didn’t take her eyes off him, making sure he wasn’t trying anything.

When he was standing, she slid the weapon back into its holster, still watching him.

“You’re lucky I recognized you. One more second and you’d be part of the wall décor.”

He raised a brow, amused by her icy calm. “I’ve had worse welcomes.”

She exhaled, sounding annoyed.

“You owe me an explanation, big guy. It’s not every day someone breezes through my security like it’s nothing.”

She tapped the wall panel. The hallway LEDs came on slowly, casting a soft glow that contrasted with the earlier darkness. The red and blue tones brushed Reed’s features, confirming his identity.

“Glad to see you still shoot first and ask questions later,” he said with a tired smile.

She ignored the comment, running a hand over her neck as if to release the tension.

“I’d have preferred to skip the late-night drama at 2 AM, but hey, your call.”

She stepped back a bit, crossing her arms.

“Alright… now talk. Why are you here? And don’t feed me any of your agent-on-a-mission crap.”

She holstered her gun with a sharp motion, her eyes locked on Reed.

“Let’s go downstairs. Easier to talk there.”

Reed gave a simple nod. His footsteps echoed down the hall as they headed for the stairs. Below, the living room retained its cold yet lived-in feel, with scattered cushions and a few empty Solar Pop cans on the coffee table.

V moved toward the open kitchen, grabbed two glasses and a pack she set on the counter. Reed sat on the large couch, taking in the room as if every detail told him a piece of V’s story. He broke the silence:

“How have you been, since… all that? Three months, right?”

V shrugs, looking detached, though her fingers nervously toy with the tab of her can.

“Nothing crazy. I hang around Night City, take walks… try not to stick my neck into too much trouble.”

She pauses, staring at the fizzing liquid in her can.

“Sometimes I check on the cyberpsychos I managed to save. You know, just to… make sure they don’t spiral again.”

She straightens, grabs a second Solar Pop, and hands it to him.

“Here, try this. Never had one, have you?”

Reed arches a brow, smirking.

“I’ve always wondered what this stuff tastes like. Judging by how fast you chug it, I guess it’s addictive.”

“Try it and you’ll see.”

He pops the can open, the foam hissing for a second. He takes a sip, his face unreadable.

“Not bad… a bit too sweet.”

V bursts out laughing, a short, sharp laugh.

“What, you think everything’s gotta taste like the bitter crap from your job?”

He shakes his head, amused, before adding:

“So, a quiet life… a normal one, if you can call it that.”

V slouches back on the couch, legs crossed, her eyes fixed on him.

“Normal? Nothing’s normal here. I’m surviving, Reed. That’s it.”

He studies her for a moment, his serious gaze clashing with the playful tone of their chat.

“You, living a normal life… can’t picture it. That’s not the kind of thing you get by snapping your fingers, not after everything you’ve been through.”

She sighs, her eyes drifting to the table.

“And you? Langley treating you well?”

Reed takes another sip before answering, his voice more measured.

“It’s… different. Not a snake pit like Night City. It’s quiet. Too quiet, sometimes.”

He pauses, searching for words.

“Out there, you barely see corpses on the street. No bloodstains on the sidewalks every other day. People live like violence is just a rumor. It’s… different.”

V raises a brow. “So, must’ve been fun, huh?”

He chuckles softly.

“Fun? If you mean paperwork and endless meetings… yeah, I’ve had the time of my life.”

He blinks, a hint of irony in his eyes.

“But trust me, even out there, you can’t drop your guard. The sharks just wear better suits.”

She takes another sip, smirking at him.

“You and your secrets, huh.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He sets his can down, then leans slightly toward her. His hand rests on her thigh, as if to hold her attention. His eyes lock with hers.

“Seriously… are you okay, V? Not the default ‘I’m fine.’ I’m asking about you.”

She stays still, gaze frozen. Her other hand tightens around the can she’s still holding. She takes a sip, sets it down slowly on the table, then slumps back against the couch, arms crossed.

“I don’t have an answer for that. But I’m not dead. And I’m still standing. That’s good enough.”

Reed studies her for a long moment, silent. In his eyes, there’s a mix of admiration and curiosity.

“You know… I was sure you’d leave this damn city. After all you’ve been through, after everything Night City stole from you… But you’re still here.”

She shrugs.

“Leaving Night City doesn’t mean anything. It always catches up to you.”

He smirks.

“Maybe. But you’re still standing. And that… not many people can say that.”

V doesn’t answer right away. She just spins her Solar Pop can between her hands, eyes fixed on the trembling liquid inside. Her mind is elsewhere—or maybe just too tired to find words. The long conversation with Mr. Hands still weighed heavy in her head, and she had no intention of spilling details. Especially not to Reed. Those two, she knew, would never mix well.

Reed watched her silently, reading the unspoken tension on her face. Then, after a pause heavier than expected, he spoke in a low, steady voice:

“V, I’m not saying this to complicate things for you. Or to piss you off. But… you deserve better than this.”

She frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. He wasn’t looking at her like a legend or a survivor anymore—just like a person.

“With everything you’ve done…” He exhaled slowly, searching for words. “You didn’t have to throw yourself into all that mess. Saving the president, wrecking Arasaka’s plans… No one forced you. But you still took all the hits, all the way to the end. And you were one step away from not making it.”

V averted her gaze, as if dodging the memory. Her fingers drummed nervously against the can in a sharp, steady rhythm.

“And despite all that,” Reed continued, “you’re still here. But… for what, exactly? To wander around Night City, watching the walls crumble, waiting for someone to put a bullet in your back?”

She let out a quiet sigh, jaw tightening. She wanted to respond, but nothing came out. He was right about one thing: since losing her combat implants, she wasn’t the V that the city feared—or admired—anymore. She didn’t have that edge.

Reed leaned slightly toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice softened, almost a whisper.

“I’m not trying to lecture you. That’s not my thing. But you saved my life, V. You saved Myers. And I’ll never forget that. So yeah, I want to return the favor. Save you… before this city eats you alive.”

His words lingered between them for a moment. V took a deep breath, sinking back into the couch, her eyes lifting to the soft glow of the neon lights on the ceiling. She was tired—he could see it.

“And what makes you think I’m in danger, exactly?” she asked, folding her arms.

Reed raised a brow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though his tone stayed serious:

“V, I get that you want to play tough. Keep your… balls, as you’d say. But cut the act.”

V let out a dry laugh, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Reed tilted his head slightly, emphasizing his next words.

“Listen. You’re a legend, yeah. A living legend, even. But that doesn’t make you untouchable. Especially now. You’ve got no combat implants. And trust me, there are people just waiting for the moment you’re vulnerable—to take your title and end you.”

Her brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around the Solar Pop can resting between her knees.

“You saying I’m in denial? That I’m blind to what’s coming?”

“Exactly.” Reed locked his gaze with hers.

“You can’t just sit here, hoping the storm will pass. Not in this city. Not in Night City.”

V opened her mouth to retort, but he raised his hand, stopping her mid-thought.

“You think you’re safe here? You think no one can break through your defenses?”

She gave a small shrug, almost defensive.

“And what if I do? You’ve seen my systems. They’re not junk.”

Reed shook his head, a faint, wry grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Your systems are good, yeah. The best Militech can set up. But…” He paused, leaning slightly closer. “Even with all that, there are still people who can get in. And out. Whenever they want.”

V straightened abruptly.

“Excuse me? What do you mean ‘whenever they want’?”

“V…” Reed sighed.

“You really don’t know?”

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing.

“Don’t know what?”

His brows furrowed, as if surprised by her reaction.

“Shit… You really didn’t know.” He clicked his tongue, almost annoyed.

“Someone’s been in your place. Not once. Not twice. Several times.”

V shot up from the couch, her gaze locked on Reed with icy suspicion.

“Wait. Say that again. You’ve got proof of what you’re saying?”

He nodded, already on his feet.

“Come on.”

Without waiting for her response, he headed for the office. V followed, her mind racing. The security feeds? She had never seen anything unusual.

Reed leaned back slightly in the swivel chair, the glow of the holographic screens casting sharp lines across his face.

“Yeah, well… this guy isn’t just a thief or some bored netrunner.” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. “Look at him. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times. No hesitation, no wasted motion. He’s been here before, or he’s studied this place.”

V didn’t reply. Her jaw tightened, her nails digging into her arms as she stood behind him, still staring at the frozen image of the intruder on her bed.

The pull in his hands—her pull—was enough to make her stomach turn.

Reed’s eyes narrowed. He tapped a few commands on the interface, rewinding the footage. “He doesn’t touch anything else. Doesn’t look for creds, weapons, nothing. This isn’t about stealing. He’s here for you.”

He paused, turning his head slightly toward her. “And that’s the part I don’t like.”

V finally spoke, her voice quiet but sharp:

“You think I like it? Reed, I’ve had psychos, corpos, gangs, all kinds of trash trying to put me six feet under… but this?” She gestured at the screen, where the stranger’s gloved hand traced the shape of her pillow. “This is different. This is… personal.”

Reed’s jaw tightened. He hit pause, the man’s masked face now frozen mid-movement.

“You’ve pissed off more people than I can count. Could be a corpo sending a message. Could be a stalker with too much tech and too much time. Or…” He hesitated. “Could be someone who knows you. Knows what you’ve lost.”

V glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got no combat implants anymore, V. That changes the game. People who wouldn’t have dared touch you a year ago might see an opportunity now. This guy—” he pointed at the screen, “—he’s acting like he knows exactly where your weak spots are.”

A cold silence fell. V’s hand twitched near her hip again, out of habit, though her weapon was still on the counter.

Reed closed the feed with a swipe, then stood, turning to face her. “We need to figure out who he is, and fast. Before he gets brave enough to come back when you’re home.”

V met his eyes, her tone steely.

“Oh, he’s gonna come back. I want him to. Just once. Then I’ll make sure he regrets breathing.”

Reed smirked faintly, though there was no amusement in his expression.

“Yeah, that’s the V I know. But listen, don’t take this lightly. I’ll get my hands on the raw footage, run it through Langley’s tools. Maybe we can track this guy. If he’s good, we’ll need to be better.”

V exhaled sharply, grabbing her can of Solar Pop and taking a long sip, even though it had gone flat. “Fine. But I’m not just waiting around while some creep crawls into my bed. We hunt him down. Now.”

Reed crossed his arms, his voice low but firm:

“Then we do it together.”

Reed pulled up another recording, this one from a week earlier.

The screen displayed V’s house, calm and quiet, bathed in the cool tones of infrared cameras. V appeared in the footage, coming down the stairs, grabbing her keys, checking her gun out of habit, and leaving the house with a relaxed stride. Nothing unusual there.

But barely five minutes after she left, a figure appeared on the feed.

Same as before: hood pulled low, black gloves, dark tactical jacket. The man slipped into frame like a living shadow, moving with unsettling precision, avoiding the drones’ lines of sight as if he had memorized every corner.

V leaned closer to the screen, tension knotting her shoulders.

“What the hell is this…?” she muttered.

On the video, the intruder entered the house with disturbing ease, passing by the stack of boxes in the hallway — the “six-packs” filled with old stuff — without even glancing at them. He headed straight upstairs, like he already knew where to go.

“You see what I see?” Reed said, his tone heavy.

V clenched her fists. “Yeah… and I don’t like it one bit.”

He let the footage run. The man entered her bedroom, stood in front of the closet for a long moment, then picked up a sweater. He folded it neatly, as if it was his. Then, worse yet, he opened the drawer of her dresser and pulled out a black bra.

V jerked back.

“Wait… no. No, no, no.”

She shook her head, but the images were there, undeniable.

“Now you get it, don’t you?” Reed added, eyes locked on her.

He skipped through other days, randomly. Every time, the same routine. As soon as she left the house, the man showed up. Not a normal thief — he didn’t take cash or gear. Only clothes, personal items. Sometimes, he would even sit on her couch, crack open a Solar Pop from her fridge, like he lived there.

A chill ran down V’s spine.

“Shit… how long has he been doing this?”

Reed didn’t answer. He paused on another video: this time, the man was just sitting on her bed, holding a hoodie against his face as if breathing in her scent.

“Okay, this is getting seriously…” Reed stopped mid-sentence, pushing himself back from the chair. “This guy’s not a junkie. Not some homeless creep. Look at his posture. He’s a professional.”

V, meanwhile, was boiling inside.

“A pro… who steals my clothes and makes himself comfortable on my bed?!” She slammed her fist on the desk. “I’m going to tear him apart.”

Reed crossed his arms, giving her a weighty look.

“Before you charge in guns blazing, we’ll pin him down first. We gather every bit of footage we can, track his movements.”

V took a deep breath, shaking her head. “Seriously… I thought I was losing it. My sweaters, my bras… I figured my room was just a mess. But now…”

Her gaze stayed locked on the screen, heart pounding. The proof was right there. Someone had been inside her house. Someone knew her habits, her comings and goings.

Reed started up the stairs, each step echoing through the tense silence of the house.

“I’m checking the game room. You, see if that bastard really took your stuff.” His voice was sharp, almost military — like he refused to let this situation get the better of him.

V stood frozen for a few seconds, her hand gripping the banister, her eyes distant. She wanted to breathe, to relax, but her heartbeat was still too fast. Finally, she stepped into her bedroom and pulled open the first dresser drawer.

The shock hit immediately.

Some sweaters were missing. The empty space in the drawer slapped her like an insult. She yanked open the next one. Bras gone. Another drawer. Panties.

She stood there, frozen, her breath shallow, before slamming the drawer shut with a sharp crack.

“Fuck…” V muttered, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands pressed against her head. A sharp headache began to pulse behind her temples. It felt like she was trapped inside her own house, like every single object around her had been violated, inspected, defiled.

Reed appeared in the doorway, alert. He didn’t even need to ask; her face said it all. He walked over in silence and sat beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers. The weight of his presence was strangely reassuring.

“You’re not okay,” he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

V nodded, unable to find the words.

“That bastard… he came here, touched my stuff, my clothes…” Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t fear—just seething rage. “And me… I didn’t see a damn thing.”

Reed glanced at her from the corner of his eye, hands clasped in front of him.

“You know… you can never say ‘That’ll never happen to me.’ Night City’s exactly that: unpredictable shit that blindsides you when you least expect it.”

He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.

“You’ve survived where anyone else would already be rotting in a mass grave. You’ve walked through hell, and you’re still here. But that doesn’t mean you get to let your guard down. This city… it swallows you whole, V. And if you don’t act, it’ll chew you up for good.”

V turned her head slightly toward him, her eyes glinting with exhaustion.

“And what do you want me to do, huh? Hide away in here, locked up, checking every goddamn blind spot?”

“No,” Reed replied firmly. “I want you to protect yourself. Stop living like your clock’s already run out.”

She looked away, her chest tight. For the first time, she felt her body faltering, a piece of herself cracking. All her life, she’d charged forward headfirst, but now… the momentum was gone.

Reed leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving her.

“You might think you’re still untouchable just because you’re V, the legend. But even a legend can fall. So stop acting like you’re alone in this.”

Now standing in front of her, his face half-shadowed by the dim light of the room, Reed’s expression was stern, almost stubborn—the kind she knew all too well.

“V, you can’t keep going like nothing happened. This city has already taken too much from you. You deserve to breathe… to have your redemption.”

The word lingered in the air, heavy, almost out of place. V looked away, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her sweatpants. She said nothing, but her thoughts were spinning out of control.

Redemption… The word sounded almost ironic. What was even left for her here? Misty was gone. Panam had carved her own path far from Night City. Judy… Judy had rebuilt her life, as if what they’d had was just another faded memory. Even River… she didn’t know what had become of him, and maybe it was better not to ask. Victor, too, was on the edge—she could feel it. He was just waiting for the right moment to leave this cursed city behind.

She drew in a deep breath, staring blankly into the void. Then why the hell am I still here?

The Atlantis… That name echoed in her skull like a stubborn, haunting note. It was the only thing that still felt worth the fight, the only project not yet devoured by the chaos. But beyond that? She was tired. Why stay in a place where I feel the most alone?

Reed sat beside her, his back slightly hunched, as if weighing every word. V kept her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her fingers dug into her hair, as though holding onto what little control she had left. She didn’t cry—she couldn’t. She wasn’t that kind of woman. The last time tears had crossed her face was when they told her she was going to die. Not for anything else. Not for her lost implants. Not for everything else that had fallen apart.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Reed… I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve got no plan, no… no real drive. I’m just living day by day, and it’s eating me alive.”

She lifted her head, her eyes burning but dry. “You’re here telling me I deserve better, but… what do you want, exactly? What do you want me to do?”

Reed took a moment. He stared at her, then answered calmly, with that blunt military honesty that cut through any pretense:

“What I want? I want you to make it out of this hole alive.”

He stood up, walked a few steps toward the window, as if to gather his thoughts.

“Langley. It’s not Night City, V. It’s not a dream either, I won’t lie to you—there are rules, there’s shit, there are bodies, yeah… but at least there, you can breathe. You can wake up without wondering if someone’s gonna put a bullet in your head before noon.”

She frowned, skeptical. He turned back to her:

“I’ve got a position for you there. Not some cushy life, no. But a job that means something. Covert ops, infiltration, analysis, counter-intel… The stuff you already do, but with real resources. And…” He paused, his gaze locking on hers. “And maybe we can find a way to give back what you’ve lost. Not the same implants, no… but something to make you more than this shadow you think you’ve become.”

V pressed her lips together, uneasy. She fell back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I’m not sure I even want that anymore, Reed. Chasing fights, the thrill, all of it…”

He gave a humorless smile. “You think you’ve got a choice? Look at you. You were born for this. Even now, with nothing in your system, you’re still fighting.”

She closed her eyes. Memories flooded back. Jackie, his laugh echoing in their crappy apartment. The bullet that had shattered everything. The betrayals, the deaths, the faces she’d left behind. Judy, Panam, River… shadows drifting further away, each living a life she no longer had a place in. She’d come to Night City with Jackie. And now… she had no one.

Her throat tightened. “I wish I could’ve saved Jackie… the way I saved Johnny.”

Reed knelt beside her, placing a firm hand on her arm.

“You’ve already done more than most people in this goddamn city. You’ve pulled off miracles for others. But you, V… who’s pulling you out?”

She opened her eyes, staring at him. He continued, voice lower now:

“Let me get you out of here. FIA owes you. Hell, I owe you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, not after what you’ve done. I just want to save at least one person from this mess. You.”

He straightened slightly, still keeping his hand on her. “You think Night City’s gonna give you a second chance? Look, tonight alone, some guy walked into your place like you were a ghost. Without implants, even with guns, you won’t last forever. Not here.”

Silence fell. V took a deep breath, her fingers gripping her joggers.

She muttered, “And what if… I’ve got nothing left to wait for, anyway?”

He shook his head. “Then you make something up. You create something for yourself. But not here. Not while you’re waiting for this city to finish you off.”

V slowly stood, as if her legs weighed a ton. She inhaled, then moved toward the balcony. The night stretched out before her, dotted with the dim lights of the garden. The white stones, the trimmed trees, and the hanging lanterns offered a sharp contrast to the blazing inferno of Night City’s skyline. Here, everything felt strangely quiet. Too quiet.

Reed followed, hands in his pockets, stopping right beside her. Their shoulders almost brushed. He looked at the view, then at her profile, noticing the tension in her jaw, the way she gripped the railing as if afraid the world might crumble beneath her.

“Alright,” she said, her voice rougher than she’d intended. “If I say yes to Langley… what’s waiting for me there? Other than your so-called ‘good job’ that sounds more like an excuse than anything else?”

Reed smirked slightly. He knew V wouldn’t settle for vague promises.

“What’s waiting for you?” He straightened, locking eyes with her. “First, you’d get a house. Not some concrete shoebox like this, but a real house. Fully furnished, with everything you need. A garden, a space that’s yours, without surveillance drones buzzing by every five minutes.” He raised a finger, as if counting off. “A top-of-the-line car. A secondary apartment if you want one. And everything you need for real stability. The FIA takes care of its agents, V. They give you the tools to start over.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? And in exchange, what do I become? A nice little desk jockey hiding behind paperwork?”

He shook his head, amused. “Not really your style, is it? Your main cover, sure, would be administrative—secretary, office work, just to stay off the radar. But behind that? It’s the real deal: covert operations, espionage, counterintelligence, protecting NUSA interests, tech intel, experimental missions… We’re not talking about pushing papers. We’re talking clean, organized work, with the resources of an agency that knows what it’s doing.”

V leaned against the railing, watching her faint reflection in the sliding glass door. “So… spy work, huh?”

Reed gave a faint grin. “Call it whatever you want. But it’s a life where you still matter. Where you’re not just…” He left the sentence hanging.

She took a deep breath, staring up at the sky as if it might hold an answer. “And the implants? I’m screwed there, you know that.”

He stepped closer, his voice softer. “We don’t have miracles. But we’ve got techs, experimental programs… Maybe we can give you alternatives, or at least ways to defend yourself differently.” He paused, his gaze darkening. “Either way, you know damn well that without some kind of cover, Night City will eat you alive. And without implants, you’ll be a target.”

V stayed silent for a moment, eyes lost in the void. Between Mr. Hands’ offer and Reed’s, her mind was a battlefield. Two different roads, two radically different promises… and no clue which one to take. She exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally said, her voice tired but firm.

Reed nodded slowly. “That’s all I’m asking. Think it over. And when you’re ready, you give me your answer. I’ll take care of the rest—put out the alert to the FIA to secure you a spot.”

He straightened and adjusted his jacket, glancing toward the door. “Come on, walk me out. And grab me a Solar Pop for the road; I’ve still got hours of travel ahead of me.”

V raised an eyebrow. “Hours? That bad?”

He smirked faintly. “Twelve to eighteen, depending on the route. And trust me, driving is just impossible.”

“Impossible?” She frowned. “Wait… you’re saying you didn’t come here by car?”

Reed gestured for her to follow him outside. Curious, V grabbed a Solar Pop from the fridge, handed it to him, and together they crossed the garden to the driveway. The night air was cool, with a faint breeze brushing against their faces.

When V saw the vehicle, she froze for a moment.

“Holy shit… what the hell is that beast?”

Before her stood a sleek black vehicle, its futuristic lines gleaming under the garden lights. It wasn’t anything like a standard corpo ride: it radiated power, stealth, and—something else.

Reed, amused by her reaction, stepped closer to the car. “Don’t get in. I just want to show you something.”

He activated a module beneath the door. The car emitted a low hum, then… rose gently, as if gravity no longer applied. V took a step back, eyes wide.

“That’s a fucking flying car…” she whispered.

“FIA tech,” Reed said with a satisfied grin. “If you come with us, you’ll see this is far from the only toy we’ve got.”

V crossed her arms, half skeptical, half impressed. “Okay… I’ll admit, that’s badass.”

Reed popped open the Solar Pop and took a sip. He grimaced at the first taste, then gave her a half-smile. “Damn, this stuff is sweet as hell…”

“Yeah, so what? You wanted to try it, didn’t you?” V shot back with a raised brow, a hint of amusement in her tone.

He shook his head, still amused. “Anyway. Think about it, V. Seriously. I’m counting on you. And… watch your back.”

He stepped back, climbed into the car, and the door closed silently. The body of the vehicle glowed faintly blue. It lifted higher, gliding into the night like a phantom.

V stood still on the driveway, watching the headlights fade into the sky. Her heart was pounding faster than she wanted to admit. Too much info, too many choices, too much shit for one night. She exhaled and slowly walked back inside.

The silence hit as soon as she shut the door. Her shoulders sank. She ran a hand over her face, exhausted. “Shit,” she muttered, “what the hell kind of day is this…?”

She collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. Hands or Reed? Atlantis or Langley?

A sudden, heavy knocking echoed against the front door. Not polite taps—three firm, insistent thuds, like a drumbeat. V froze, a curse slipping from her lips.

“Shit… again?” she sighed, grabbing her gun from the sideboard. “Can’t I get a damn minute of peace?”

The night had already been a storm: Mr. Hands and his cryptic metaphors, Reed and his damn offer… And now, a third “choice” was pounding at her door like they planned to tear it down. She inhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the gun’s grip. At least, she told herself, this one knocked. Not like the intruder sneaking in earlier. But now, her weapon never left her side. Paranoia had become second nature.

She moved toward the door, each step slow and deliberate. When she cracked it open, the familiar silhouette of Johnny Silverhand stood in the hallway.

“You didn’t have to point that gun at your old brain roommate,” he said with a tone of mock nonchalance, raising his hands. “It’s me. Always me.”

He stepped into the apartment like he owned the place, not waiting for her to say anything. His walk was lazy, casual, with that lingering rockstar swagger he still carried like a trademark.

V raised an eyebrow, exhausted. “Johnny… What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“I was at Kerry’s,” he answered, as if that explained everything. He dropped himself onto the couch and eyed the coffee table. “Damn, you’ve downed three Solar Pops? No, wait… four.”

“So what?” V shot back with a hint of irritation.

“So what?” He gave her a smug grin. “I remember when you used to be less sugar-drunk.”

She rolled her eyes. “I gave three of them to Reed.”

The name hit the air like an accidental slap. Johnny raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Reed?”

“Yeah. He was here earlier.”

Johnny didn’t say a word, but she felt his gaze on her—heavy, probing, carrying that misplaced jealousy he never bothered to hide.

She studied him silently, noticing despite herself how he looked tonight: black joggers, worn sneakers, a dark t-shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled up, and his hair tied half-back, with a few strands falling to frame his face. She hated to admit it, but the look suited him.

They almost matched tonight��both in joggers and sneakers. The thought gave her a strange chill she quickly shook off. No way she was going to think about that. Not tonight.

Johnny, meanwhile, was already wandering around the apartment, ignoring the piles of clothes and boxes stacked near the door as if they were invisible set pieces.

“Seriously, Silverhand, don’t you have Rogue or Kerry to bother?” she asked, arms crossed.

He turned to her with a crooked smile. “Kerry’s on tour. Rogue… well, Rogue’s doing what she does best—running her empire. And me? Guess I’m here.”

V clenched her teeth. He’s got everyone. Me? What the hell do I have?

She said nothing, but the thought stayed. Johnny always had people around him—Kerry, Rogue, Denny… and her? Even Panam had hit the road. River had moved on. Everyone was gone. She was the one left behind.

Johnny picked up an empty Solar Pop can and twirled it between his fingers. “Reed, huh? What did he want?”

“None of your business.”

He shrugged, pretending not to care, but his eyes said otherwise.

V all but collapsed onto the couch, her legs heavy, as if they could give out any second. She ran a hand over her face, rubbing her temples in fatigue. It’s none of his business, she thought. Not Hands, not Reed, not Johnny. No one.

She let her head fall back against the cushion, eyes closed. But she heard Johnny’s footsteps approaching, that sound that always felt like a challenge. They stopped right behind her.

“You didn’t have to point your gun at your old brain roommate,” he said with mock casualness, leaning on the back of the couch above her neck, arms crossed. “It’s me. Always me.”

V tilted her head over her shoulder, glaring at him. Johnny was leaning over her, watching her with those steel-gray eyes, like a kid waiting for trouble to happen.

“So, it was Reed tonight?” he drawled with icy sarcasm. “After Hands, now it’s him chauffeuring you around like some princess in his fancy ride? Christ, V, this is starting to feel like a fucking tour.”

She frowned, annoyed. “How do you even know I saw Hands?”

Johnny smirked, that mix of sarcasm and reproach twisting on his face. “Seriously? Everyone knows when you’re being carted around in his neon limo. You’re not exactly discreet, V. You’ve got no implants, no tools… and what do you do? Charge headfirst like the city’s just waiting to hug you.”

Her jaw tightened. “Stay in your lane, Johnny.”

He laughed dryly, almost mockingly. “My lane? What’s that supposed to mean? Huh? I’m just watching you fall into the arms of the first suit or undercover cop who promises you a new life. That’s your big revenge plan?”

V leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. “Are you done?” Her voice was tired but firm.

Johnny leaned closer, looming over her. “No, I’m not done. You think these guys want what’s best for you? Hands, Reed… they’re using you. Because you’re V. Because you’re the legend. But right now, you’re just a worn-out body, no implants, a gun, and scars. And you keep pretending they’ll save you.”

She glared at him. “You’re just jealous, Johnny.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Johnny looked away slightly, like she’d hit a nerve. Then, with a bitter tone, he said: “I don’t need to be jealous. I just see you getting eaten alive by their sweet talk.”

V took a deep breath, her heart pounding faster than she wanted. She stood slowly, putting some distance between them.

Johnny eventually leaned back, as if to cool himself down. His gaze was still burning, but less harsh now. He crossed his arms against the back of the couch.

“Listen, V… it’s not about you.” His voice was quieter now, betraying real concern. “I don’t know what Hands fed you, or what Reed whispered in your ear, but I know guys like them. They never show up for free. Guys at that level—they’re bored up there, with their credits and glass towers, so they look for people like you. People who have something real.”

He grimaced, searching for words. “And that… that pisses me off. Not at you. At them. Because I know they’ll ask for insane shit. Always. Things that’ll eat you up even more.”

V looked at him, weary. Johnny wasn’t wrong—and that’s what made it exhausting. He kept talking, as if to hammer it in:

“Reed… let me guess, he offered you his golden ticket to Langley again, didn’t he? Like you can’t handle yourself here. He’s been doing that since the first time you woke up, the second you breathed Night City’s air again. Because he’s scared you’ll die out there, without cover, without backup…”

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Kinda ironic, huh? Now that Myers handed you a luxury crib.”

He paused, his gaze drilling into her. “And Hands… what’s his game, huh? What’s that street king after?”

V crossed her arms, regaining some composure. “Nothing.” Her voice was flat, intentionally short. “He just wanted to know how I’m managing without my implants. That’s it.”

Johnny raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you think I’m buying that?”

She sighed, looking up at him. “Whether you buy it or not, Johnny… I’m not in the mood for this tonight.”

She felt her temples pounding, as if every word from Johnny hit her skull directly. Damn Johnny. Sometimes, he could be unbearable, almost cruel, and right after, he became strangely calm, almost gentle. That contrast always threw her off, ever since the day she’d dived into his memories, when their minds had intertwined. It was like living with a constant paradox, a mix of anger and warmth she couldn’t untangle.

She ran a hand over her face, sighing. “Seriously, Johnny… what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with Rogue?” Her gaze lifted to him, a mix of curiosity and irritation. “Don’t you miss her? Or are you too busy showing up here just to piss me off?”

Johnny raised a brow, leaning casually against the back of the couch. His tattooed arms crossed over his chest, and he looked at her with that cocky little smirk she knew all too well. “Rogue? She’s busy with the Afterlife, like always. She doesn’t need some old ghost hanging around. And me…” He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Yeah, I’m bored. So I came to check if you’re not rotting alone in here. You look way more fragile without your damn implants, V.”

She shot him a sharp look, offended. “Fragile?” She gave a bitter smile. “I’ve survived worse, and you know it.”

But Johnny had that way of looking at her, half-mocking, half-serious, that always disarmed her a little. He went on, more calmly: “I’m not saying it to drag you down. Just that… you used to be a machine. Now, you’re… human. Too human.”

V lowered her eyes, silent, absentmindedly playing with an empty Solar Pop can on the coffee table. Her fingers tapped against the cold metal, a light rhythm filling the silence of the living room. Johnny, meanwhile, circled around the couch and leaned on the armrest, right behind her. She felt his weight leaning slightly, his presence burning just above her shoulder.

“And you?” She finally lifted her head. “Don’t you have anything better to do than drop by here? Kerry’s still putting up with you, I guess?”

Johnny barked a dry laugh. “Kerry… yeah, he’s managing with his tours, but I’m not about to glue myself to him, y’know? Ever tried putting up with him in the studio for six hours straight? I love the guy, but he’s worse than Rogue when he gets going.”

V rolled her eyes, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You’re hopeless.”

That’s when a faint vibration buzzed against her wrist. Her holo-comlink lit up, casting a soft blue glow across her eyes. She blinked for a moment, caught by the notifications that appeared in her field of vision. A message from Hands. His elegant tone seeped even through the brief lines, like he was dictating a report to an emperor. Then, right below, another message, signed Reed.

Johnny frowned at the subtle shift in her expression. “What? Now you’re ignoring me?” He leaned in slightly, his face almost level with hers. “This is the first time I’ve been ignored like that. Even my exes didn’t have the guts.”

“Oh, shut up…” V sighed, tearing her eyes from the holo-comlink. “You really think you’re the center of the world, Johnny?”

He feigned being hurt, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Well… kinda, yeah. And now you’ve got two old guys texting you in the middle of the night, I think I have the right to know, don’t I?”

V shot him a dark glare. “None of your damn business. And you’re old too, if you think about it!” She flicked the notifications away with a quick swipe of her finger, as if to close the subject for good.

Johnny had been leaning casually against the back of the couch until then, his fingers tapping an invisible rhythm, as if he were humming a song in his head. V, half-slouched on the large corner sofa, was trying to focus on the notifications flashing on her holo-comlink, but Johnny’s presence behind her was already heavy enough to scatter her thoughts.

He suddenly straightened, his boots barely creaking on the hardwood floor. She didn’t look up right away. Maybe she should have, because without warning, Johnny leaned forward, planted his hands on the back of the couch, and with a smooth movement vaulted over it, landing right beside her.

V flinched violently, her hand clenching the cushion she was leaning against. She turned to him, her expression halfway between exasperation and alarm.

“Jesus, Johnny…” she exhaled, taking a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. “Could you, for once, not show up like a damn ninja?”

He smirked, shrugging as if his acrobatics were the most natural thing in the world. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locking intensely with hers.

“You’re way too jumpy, V. That kind of reflex? It’ll get you killed.” His tone was calm, almost amused, but in his dark eyes, there was a sharp glimmer of something serious — that irritating habit of his, acting like he knew her limits better than she did.

V sighed and averted her eyes, blinking her holo-comlink off with a flicker of thought, the artificial blue glow vanishing from her gaze. “You’re the one making me jumpy, Silverhand. Pulling that parkour crap in my living room, and you wonder why I’m tense.”

Johnny didn’t reply right away. He’d moved a little closer — too close for her liking — his boots nearly touching hers, his knee brushing against her thigh. She felt the couch dip under his weight and drew in a slow breath, refusing to give him the satisfaction of backing off.

Then his eyes dropped to the pockets of her joggers, and without warning, his hand slid onto her thigh, moving with a calculated slowness. V tensed immediately.

“What the—” she started, but he was already pulling something from her pocket. A metallic clink broke the moment.

A genuine smile — too bright to be anything but suspicious — spread across his face. He turned the dog tags in his fingers, staring at them as if they were some long-lost treasure. V, frozen, stared at him with a mix of confusion and wariness.

“You still carry these damn tags around…” he murmured, his voice vibrating with a strange emotion — something between relief and… joy? He looked almost happy.

V watched him with a puzzled, uneasy expression. She had never seen Johnny like this, not with that kind of intensity. In her mind, a silent alarm rang. Why does he look so… glad? She hated the thought, but that glimmer in his eyes made it seem like those tags mattered to him more than anything else.

Johnny stayed quiet for a moment, the tags clinking softly between his fingers. V didn’t move, just watching him. She knew their weight — not the metal’s, but everything they symbolized: promises, sacrifices, memories burned deep into their shared past. Those tags had traveled. They’d belonged to a lost soldier, then to a rockerboy who had raged against the world, and finally ended up with a merc who’d become a legend despite herself. And now, they were back in his hands, like some circle closing.

Johnny finally looked up, and without a word, he leaned in. His rough, warm fingers brushed her skin as he gently pushed aside the choker she was wearing, sliding the chain beneath until the cold metal settled against her neck. V didn’t move a muscle — frozen. She felt his breath on her cheek, too close, too raw, but there was something solemn about the gesture that disarmed her.

“You’re not you without these tags.” His voice was low and rough, but strangely soft. “And I’m not me if I see them tossed around in a pocket like forgotten junk.”

He adjusted the chain around her neck, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary on the back of her neck before pulling back slightly to look at her, a faint shadow of a smile on his lips. “Feels weird… seeing you with these. Like… I can breathe easier.”

V raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Johnny averted his gaze for a moment, his voice lower, almost hesitant — which wasn’t like him. “I don’t know… Maybe it’s just that it reminds me I’m still here. Not just a name etched on a wall or some song everyone’s forgotten. When I see you wear them, I feel like all this mess…” He gestured with his chin toward the apartment, the neon-lit city outside, and even her. ”… like all of it still means something.”

She didn’t say anything. This time, his words left her silent. There was something almost unsettling about this vulnerability, this mix of strength and dependency she wasn’t used to seeing in him. She knew Johnny as a storm, not as someone looking for bandages for his broken heart.

Johnny smirked, though the tension in his eyes betrayed him. “You know… that could almost be a damn Samurai chorus.” He put on a mock-theatrical voice: ”‘These tags, baby, they ain’t metal — they’re a shattered heart you wear around your neck.’” He chuckled.

V rolled her eyes, but her fingers instinctively closed around the tags against her chest. They were cold, but strangely, they warmed her.

Johnny stared at the tags resting on her collarbone for a moment, his gaze darkening with something almost possessive. Without warning, his fingers left the chain and slowly trailed down, brushing against her collarbone, sliding over the curve of her chest, and then down her stomach. V froze, caught off guard by the sudden gesture. She didn’t push him away right away — maybe out of reflex, or maybe because of that lingering memory that he’d once been inside her head, inside her body, closer than any human could ever be. But this was different. Physical. Real. And unsettling.

His hands — the left, warm and human, and the right, cold and metallic with that faint vibration she’d always felt from his cybernetic arm — settled on her hips. Not gently. Not violently either. It was a firm grip, an anchor keeping her from moving. Johnny leaned in, resting his chin on her shoulder, close enough that she could smell his scent — Ombre Leather by Tom Ford, a warm, leathery fragrance mixed with something smoky and almost animal. A scent that fit him too well.

V didn’t move. Her muscles were tense. She stared at the wall, unable to read his expression since he was pressed against her, his cheek brushing hers. His voice, low and resonant, rose in a near-whisper.

“So, how are you feeling, V?”

She frowned, confused by the sudden question. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t move. “Did you even eat today? Get any proper sleep? Or have you just been moping around this apartment like some lost soul?” His voice was gentle, but there was that tone… that tone of control, like he had every right to check every detail of her life.

“Johnny…” she sighed, hesitant, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“And Reed?” he added, sharper now, his metal arm tightening slightly around her hips. “What exactly did you two talk about?”

She tensed. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, it is.” His fingers slid slowly down along her thighs, in a deliberate, measured motion, as if he was assessing her. “It is my business, because I’ve been inside your head, V. I know what wears you down. And guys like Reed or Hands… they’ll eat you alive.”

His tone darkened, more threatening. “Tell me. Did he do anything to you? Did anyone hurt you?”

Johnny’s grip grew stronger, almost painful. The cold metal of his arm pressed against her side. V let out an annoyed breath and tried to push him off.

“Johnny, for fuck’s sake… let me go! What the hell is your problem?”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned his forehead against the side of her head, as if locking the moment in place. “I don’t have a problem. I’m just making sure nobody messes with you. Because if anyone lays a finger on you, trust me, I’ll rip their throat out.”

A knot formed in V’s stomach. She knew that tone — that mix of anger and poorly masked fear. But this was too much. The tension, the closeness, his scent wrapping around her, that deep voice at her ear… it was suffocating.

She grabbed Johnny’s cyberarm in a firm grip. Even weakened, even without her combat implants, she still had enough raw strength to hold her own. She pushed against his hold slightly, her gaze locked with his.

“Johnny… stop. That’s not how you talk to me. And you’re not in my head anymore. Got it?”

A heavy silence fell. Johnny stared at her, his features hardened by a mix of stubbornness and something more vulnerable — a glint of almost sadness in his eyes.

She could still feel the icy metal of his arm on her thighs, his fingers gripping like he was afraid she’d slip away. Johnny didn’t move. His eyes burned with restrained anger, but also with a mix of pain and obsession that twisted her stomach.

“Seriously, V? You thinking about Rogue right now?” His tone rose, almost sharp. “You think she even gives a damn how you’re holding up without your implants?”

V’s brows furrowed. “Johnny, stop… You’re talking nonsense. Rogue took you back into her life. You have another chance to rebuild everything. So why are you spending your time here, when we’re not…” She hesitated, searching for the words. “We’re not sharing the same body anymore.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. His grip on her thighs increased, his face just inches from hers. “How can you say that? Like everything we went through means nothing. Like those months inside your head, sharing every thought, every breath, every fucking pain… like it was nothing!”

V held his gaze. She knew. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She’d felt it in her bones, in her mind — that unique bond that had fused them together, made them inseparable. And yet… she didn’t want to go back to that. She was exhausted.

Johnny, however, leaned even closer, slowly, like he wanted her to feel every second of the tension between them. He pressed his forehead against hers, close enough that they shared the same breath. Their noses almost touched, and V shivered, realizing they were right on the edge… the edge of something far too intimate.

Her heart was pounding, not from romance, but from that uncomfortable blend of tension and blurred memories. In her head, everything collided — those nights spent talking in that mental desert, the violent arguments, the laughter, the pain they shared. She couldn’t erase any of it.

Johnny stayed there, unmoving, his voice lower now, almost a rough whisper:

“We were two souls in one body, V. You can’t tell me that doesn’t count anymore.”

V lowered her eyes slightly, unable to hold that burning stare. She knew he was right about that… but she also knew she didn’t want to be that for him.

She gently pushed Johnny away, her hands on his chest, trying to put some distance between them. She stood up in a sharp motion, like she needed to burst the suffocating bubble around them. Her holo‑comlink buzzed against her temple, her eyes tinting with that familiar blue. Messages from Viktor popped up, then several missed calls from Misty. She suddenly remembered she’d promised to call her on holo almost three hours ago.

Johnny still didn’t move. He followed her with a slow step, his hands sliding over her shoulders, her arms, like he refused to lose contact. V felt every gesture, every bit of pressure from his fingers—too close, too familiar—and it tightened her throat. She hated herself for not pushing him away harder. Part of her liked those gestures, but she refused to admit anything. She wanted it all to stay frozen in a gray zone, nothing further.

Misty’s holographic screen flared to life in front of her. Without thinking, V picked up, seeing in that call an obvious escape from the tension rising.

“Hey, yo V!” Misty beamed, her voice bright through the comlink. “I saw your message… You okay?”

V shot Johnny a quick glance, then looked away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine… It’s just…” She forced a smile. “Tonight’s been… a lot. I’ll explain everything slowly later. Right now I’ve gotta deal with a little… cockroach problem.” She leaned hard on the last word.

Johnny folded his arms, offended, his face twisting into a grimace. “Great. Now I’m a cockroach? A mouse, a cat… what’s the next insult?”

V rolled her eyes and, without taking her gaze off Misty, grabbed Johnny by the arm like she was catching a kid mid-misdeed. She headed for the door, practically dragging him despite his weight and rockstar sulk.

“Yeah, yeah, later, Johnny,” she muttered firmly. She opened the door, nudged him out—gentle, but no room for debate—then shut it behind him without waiting for an answer.

She slumped back against the door, a long breath escaping her lips. Her heart was still racing. Misty stared at her with wide eyes through the holo‑comlink.

“Tell me that wasn’t Johnny I just heard whining…” Misty said, one eyebrow arched.

V sighed and collapsed onto her couch, now blissfully free of that suffocating presence. She scrubbed a hand over her face, as if she could wipe off the tension Johnny had left behind.

“Yeah… but I don’t want to talk about him right now,” V replied, waving a hand dismissively to sweep the topic aside.

She crossed her legs, pulled a cushion against her, and exhaled deeply. “But I did… find a project. Or two, actually.”

Misty’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? Two? And you just drop that like it’s nothing? Did you finally find a solution for the Atlantis?”

V cracked a tired smile. “Yeah, I’ve got a lead. But at the same time… it’s complicated. Let’s say… kind of.”

Misty cocked a mischievous eyebrow. “And the second project?”

“It’s… something else,” V said, looking away, searching for the words. “Let’s just say it’s outside. Far from here. Outside Night City.”

“Oh, so you finally decided to move!” Misty shot back, almost triumphant. “You’re telling me you actually want to leave this toxic city—even if it’s just for a while.”

V shook her head, a nervous smile curling on her lips. “Don’t get too excited, Misty. I never said I was leaving. I’m just… thinking about it, that’s all. Nothing more.”

Misty crossed her arms, her eyes glinting with a teasing spark. “OK, but at least you’ve got the details of these two options, right? So you can compare?”

V raised a finger, looking sheepish. “Uh… not exactly.”

“Not exactly?!”

“Wait…” V lifted her hands, asking for a moment. Her comlink then projected two distinct holograms in front of her: Reed’s detailed message on one side, and Mr. Hands’ on the other. Both floated in the air like specters of future choices, bathing the room in a cold, bluish glow. V repositioned herself between them, like a judge hesitating between two sentences.

“There,” she said, gesturing toward the holograms. “Two paths. Reed on one side… Hands on the other.”

Misty gave a slow nod of approval. “Then read them carefully and see which one fits you. Not what people expect from you, but what feels like you.”

V let out a long sigh. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

Misty rolled her eyes with a laugh. “V, seriously? I’d never betray a girl who’s seen her cards shuffled across the entire city. I’ve already told you—the forces around you are bigger than you think, right? I keep everything to myself. And even if I wanted to spill, I’d forget it all in five minutes.”

A smirk tugged at V’s lips. “OK…” She slowly turned her head toward the holograms, ready to read.

Subject: Strategic Cooperation Proposal – Atlantis and the Takeover of Night City

From: Mr. Hands (Waze Bleecker)

To: V

⸻

“V,

Night City is on the brink of another collapse. Factions are splintering, fixers are tearing each other apart, and chaos always favors the powerful – the corpos, those vultures just waiting for the moment we lower our guard to devour everything. I don’t usually lay my cards on the table, but I need you as an ally.

You’ve proven time and again that you’re more than just a merc. You’re a living legend. You have the determination, the reputation, and the soul of a fixer. And I believe you’re the only one capable of holding a strategic position in Westbrook and Heywood.

Initial Plan:

I want to bring together the city’s most reliable fixers for a time, to stabilize Night City. I need a solid pivot—someone who can coordinate trusted mercs, netrunners, and ripperdocs. Not to control the city, but to bring back some balance, the kind we lost two or three years ago.

Atlantis would be your anchor point, your official cover. I want this place to become an independent hub, a neutral ground where the best talents can meet, trade, and organize. You would not only be the owner of this establishment but also a central figure in this new chessboard.

Westbrook and Wakako:

If you accept, know that Wakako Okada will have no problem letting Westbrook fall into the hands of someone as trustworthy as you. It will be a matter of a handshake and mutual agreement. I will personally ensure this alliance is sealed. It’s bold, but I know she recognizes talent and loyalty when she sees it.

Resources:

You’ll have access to the Westbrook and Heywood networks.

I’ll offer you an extended network, secured funding, and my direct protection.

Regarding your physical state: I’ve heard about certain experimental Biotechnica programs. I can arrange a confidential meeting. They won’t give you your old combat body back as it was, but you could regain part of your mobility and mercenary skills, with limited risk. This, of course, depends on your decision.

I don’t demand an immediate answer. I just want you to know this city is ready to devour you if you don’t act. With me, you’ll have a position—a solid place to stand.

Think it over. Time is a luxury few have in Night City.

And know that, if you accept, you’ll receive the finest crystal shoes I can offer.

– Hands”

Subject: Relocation Proposal – FIA Program

From: Reed Solomon (FIA)

To: V

⸻

“V,

I won’t beat around the bush: I’ve spoken about you to my direct contact at the FIA, and they agree with me. Your profile is exactly what they’re looking for for certain field and cover operations. No implants are needed for this position—what they value is your human experience, your adaptability, and your instinct.

If you accept, Langley will open its doors to you. Here’s what’s waiting for you:

– A fully furnished, secure house with a garden, garage, and all necessary amenities. If you want to be alone, you can. If you want someone by your side, there’s room. And yes, there’s even a pool just for you—I know you’re probably smiling reading this.

– A company car (and I’m not talking about a gray-market wreck from Night City).

– A stock of standard FIA clothing for your administrative and cover missions. You’re free to bring your own clothes, but I recommend playing the part and making a good impression.

– Flawless logistics: food, equipment, operational support—all ready for you upon arrival. The goal is for you to have nothing to manage, just settle in and stabilize.

Your role will be clear: cover as an administrative assistant, but in reality, you know it’ll be much more. Espionage missions, gathering tech intelligence, protecting sensitive NUSA interests, infiltration, supporting field teams—you know how to do all of that. And you’ll have the freedom to bring your own style, contacts, and vision.

The trip: I can book you a seat on a special FIA flight with a premium pass. Heliport or plane, whichever you prefer, but the fastest is the private chopper. Expect between 12 and 18 hours of travel, with a technical stop if necessary. I’ll handle everything—no paperwork, no heavy checks.

Bonus: If you want, we can offer you a completely new identity. You could leave “V” behind and start fresh, with another name and another cover. It’s not mandatory—just a card I’m putting on the table.

I’m not selling you a dream, V. Langley isn’t a paradise, but it’s a place where you’ll be respected, protected, and where your experience will be a strength, not a burden. And you’ll have a more stable life than anything Night City could offer you now.

Think it over. If you want me to trigger the process, send me a signal and I’ll move your name up the chain.

– Reed”

V remained still for a few seconds, her elbows resting on her knees, head tilted forward. The two holograms floated in front of her, suspended in the air—one with Mr. Hands’ elegant, almost theatrical signature, the other with Reed’s sharp military precision. The words overlapped in her mind, like two voices pulling at the same strings of her heart.

“Shit…” she muttered, more to herself than to Misty. “It’s crazy… I spent weeks thinking I was stuck in some damn black hole, that nothing was moving forward… and now, in just two days, I’ve got two completely insane roads opening up in front of me.”

Misty gave a small smile, her fingers idly playing with the rings dangling from her wrist. “That’s what I love about you, V. Even when you’re on the edge, there’s always something that ends up calling you, shaking you awake. And you… you sit there, looking all lost, but you’re more alive than anyone else clinging to this city.” She tilted her head, her light eyes glinting. “Two plans, V. Two. And either one could change your fate.”

V sighed, running a hand over her face. “Yeah… but it scares the hell out of me. Leaving like that… leaving everything behind. What would happen to Johnny without me?”

Misty burst out laughing, warmly but with a touch of disbelief. “Johnny? Seriously?” She shook her head, amused. “He’s lived decades with his ghosts; he’ll survive just fine without having you around every night. Live your own life, V. Let him deal with his.”

V opened her mouth but no words came out. She lowered her gaze to her knees, and Misty used the moment to keep going, her tone softer now.

“Remember what we went through with Jackie?” Her voice wavered slightly, heavy with the ache of memory. “I wanted to stay glued to Night City too. Like if I stayed in all this mess, it was a way of staying close to him. But you know what? Jackie would’ve hated seeing me stuck here, frozen in his memory.”

V looked up at Misty, her lips trembling slightly.

“V, you’ve done so much… you’re the one who changed the game, who saved lives when everything was falling apart. But you’ve forgotten about yourself. You deserve better than just scraping by. You deserve… redemption. A new story that’s yours, not just a pile of battles to patch together.” Misty leaned in slightly, her elbows on her knees. “I told Viktor the same thing, you know. He’s thinking about skipping town too. If you say yes to leaving… maybe, I don’t know, you two could even stay together for a while. He adores you, even if he never says it.”

V shook her head with a tired laugh. “Seriously, Misty? You’re trying to set me up now?”

“I’m not setting you up, I’m just throwing out ideas.” Misty lifted her hands, feigning innocence. “But you should think about yourself for once. Just you.”

V leaned back into the couch, her eyes locked on the two holograms again. Hands’ message, full of promises of power, control, a future where Atlantis would become a legendary fortress. And Reed’s, with the promise of a quiet house far from all of this, a calm pool, and a clean cover to finally turn the page.

Misty crossed her arms and sighed gently. “You know what? No matter what you choose, it’ll be the right call. If you stay, you’ll become that fixer everyone in Westbrook talks about. If you leave… you’ll finally get to breathe, to start over somewhere this city can’t devour you.”

V closed her eyes for a moment, her chest tight. “That’s the hardest part, Misty. Both… tempt me. Both speak to me.”

Misty took a deep breath, as if gathering every thought before letting it out. Her voice slowed down, softened, almost whispered, laced with that strange wisdom only she seemed to have.

“You know, V… life is like a tarot card. You can stare at it all you want, turn it over, examine every angle, but the answer… it always depends on the light you shine on it.” She paused, weighing her next words. “If I were there, I’d draw the cards for you. Not to tell you what to do, but so you could see what your heart refuses to admit. But I hate doing it from a distance… it’s like the cards lose their voice. They like being pulled face to face, feeling the air vibrate between two souls.”

V stayed silent, still staring at the two holograms floating in the air. Misty’s words wrapped around her chest like an invisible embrace, warm and grounding.

“Whatever you choose, chica…” Misty went on, her voice carrying a smile that V could almost see, “…do it for you. Not for Johnny, not for me, not for this damned ghost of a city. Just for you.”

And then she ended with a phrase that made the air itself tremble softly:

“Que la suerte te guíe, mi hermana.”

Those words, spoken in Jackie’s mother tongue, pulled a faint, genuine smile from V’s lips. For a fleeting second, she could almost hear his laugh echoing somewhere in the background, like a ghost winking at her.

The call ended, and silence fell back over the apartment. V exhaled slowly, shut down the holograms, and let the dim blue LEDs bathe the room. A soft, calming light—so unlike the chaos in her head. She stood, her footsteps dragging as she climbed the stairs to prepare for a shower.

Under the scalding spray of water, her thoughts poured out as freely as the steam filling the bathroom. A new identity… starting over… Reed had tossed that idea out as if it were simple: erase V, create a new woman, a new life. But V knew she didn’t want to vanish behind some mask. She had fought too hard to carve her name into this city’s history.

Yet, another part of her whispered… what if? What if peace was worth it? The thought of a quiet neighborhood, a sunlit home, no nightly threats hanging over her head—it shook her resolve, just for a second.

Then another image rose, sharp and alive: Atlantis. The warm and blue lights flashing against the walls, the music pulsing, laughter mingling with the hum of deals being struck. Mercs, netrunners, fixers—all crossing paths under that legendary roof. She imagined the décor, the neon signs swirling like wild, magical calligraphy.

If this city’s going to eat me alive, I might as well die in its hands… she thought, a wry smile curling her lips.

She stayed under the water for a long time, her forehead resting against the tiles, until the steam fogged up the mirror. When she finally stepped out of the shower, she slipped into a pair of shorts and a thin tank top, her hair still damp and clinging to her neck. Fatigue mixed with the electric tension of her thoughts. Every choice felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

The bedroom was bathed in a soft dimness, lit only by the muted glow of LEDs tracing the contours of the walls. V slid under the sheets, her body still warm from the shower. She lay on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The silence felt almost oppressive.

Slowly, she turned her head toward the door, as if to make sure it was properly closed. Her mercenary instincts—those old reflexes she could never fully turn off—still compelled her to check every corner of the room, weapon in hand: the shadow behind the wardrobe, the window, the slightest suspicious silhouette. Nothing. But the sensation of being watched lingered, like a cold prickle at the nape of her neck.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. It’s just my brain messing with me… Johnny, his memories… She let out a bitter little laugh. Yeah, must be that. Even in my head, he always knew how to sneak in.

Rolling onto her side, she tried to find a more comfortable position, slipping her hand under the pillow. Hands’ and Reed’s messages spun in her mind like two opposing voices, each whispering relentlessly. One promised to rebuild her empire in Night City’s flames; the other offered peace, far from here. Both had their allure, but both came with chains.

V sighed, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. “Tomorrow,” she murmured to herself. Tomorrow, I’ll decide. She refused to let her mind drown in it any longer tonight. Not after everything she’d endured in just a few hours. Between Hands, Reed, and Johnny… she had nothing left to give.

Finally, she closed her eyes, letting exhaustion take over. Tomorrow is a new day. That thought—simple, fragile—anchored her. She slowly drifted off to sleep, her face turned toward the wall.

Solar Pop is a fictional, super-sweet energy drink I created for my stories. Think of it like a fun alternative to real-life sodas (yeah, I didn’t want to give free ads to Coca-Cola or Pepsi 😅). It’s just a little world-building detail I enjoy throwing in!”

Ash and Neon. Start Over Under Another Sky

(Soon !)

[astralissky]

A New Project - Part 2

Summary: Lost between her choices, V escapes to the Drive-In, seeking a moment of calm amidst the chaos. But the tranquility doesn’t last: Mr. Hands is waiting, ready to invite her into his car with an offer she never could have imagined.

Warning: MDNI, yandere themes, verbal and psychological violence, vulgar language, angst, slow burn, existential Themes…

—————————

A/N: Hey! So, this fanfic is interactive — you’ll get to pick which route you want to follow. This chapter focuses on Choice #1, and I’ll drop Choice #2 really soon (it’s almost done, just polishing some details). Every decision you make here will shape V’s future, so… choose wisely and have fun!

<- Part 1 Part 3 ->

The engine purred softly, almost too softly for a car that could erase the horizon if you pressed too hard on the accelerator.

V was driving slowly.

The heights of North Oak appeared in the distance, bathed in that golden light that looked like a sunset… but without the romance. Here, even the sky felt filtered. As if Night City refused to let the world breathe without adding a layer of smoke, tension, and betrayed scents.

The window was halfway down.

Just enough to feel the air. Just enough to remember that there was still something outside. Even if it wasn’t really air. It was the smell of Night City. That heavy, metallic, sometimes acidic scent. A mix of burnt oil, cheap perfume, sweat, and radioactive dust. The city never let you forget where you lived. It warned you through your nose. Every morning.

Her curls lifted slightly with every gust of wind. The strands were still short, still messy, but they were growing back. Slowly. Naturally. They danced with the breeze, as if to say they were coming back. She wasn’t, not yet. But maybe, someday.

V was wearing something simple. Nothing screaming “merc,” nothing flashy. A loose black vest with open sides, comfortable, hinting at a gray tank top underneath, worn just enough. Black joggers, soft, a little baggy around the legs. And white sneakers, almost too clean for the state of the city. It was the kind of outfit that said: I’m not on duty. I’m just here. Leave me alone.

No makeup, no cyberblades. No Sandevistan whirring when she picked up the pace. She didn’t have any of that anymore. Just her arms. Her breathing. An old ache near her left kidney when she braked too hard. And her survival instinct, still there, crouched like a wounded beast.

And the car.

A black sedan, ordinary at first glance, but fully modified by El Capitan. He’d done it quietly, after hearing she’d come out of the coma. No fanfare, no announcement, no request.

Just an audio file, sitting on the dashboard, the first thing she heard when she started the engine.

“This one goes anywhere. The cops won’t scan it. And if things go south… you’ve got what you need to get the hell out before they even know you were there. No noise, no flames. Just you, and the road. Keep it safe, V. This isn’t a gift. It’s instinct.”

She had kept it.

She knew this kind of vehicle wasn’t for showing off. It was for surviving. And here, on the heights, that was exactly what she was looking for: surviving in silence, without eyes on her, without implants, without presence.

Since the attack, since that day when two lost punks mistook her for a corpo outside Viktor’s place, she never went out without thinking. One of them had hit her in the face, out of nowhere. The left side. A nasty right hook. She’d fallen down the stairs, the world spinning around her. No Sandevistan to slow time. No cybernetic retina to scan the trajectory. Just pain. And concrete. Misty had found her half-dazed. Misty had carried her back inside, in silence, as if all of this… was already too old to even be shocking.

And yet, she couldn’t forget that day.

Not because it hurt.

But because she hadn’t been able to do anything.

Before, she could’ve flattened those two without even breaking a sweat. Now, she had to pray the disguise held. That no one recognized her.

Legend or not, the city forgets you fast. Especially when you no longer look like your own image.

And the city… it had gotten worse.

The corps didn’t bother hiding anymore. Militech, Arasaka, ARCH, Biotechnica. All of them had their guns out, their soldiers marching, raids happening every other night. Clinics were being bought out one by one. Even Viktor had almost gone under. He’d refused. Too proud, too human. But he knew next time might be the last.

So yeah, this car? She was grateful for it. Silent. Fast. Blending into the crowd like some broke civilian. But tweaked enough so no one could ever stop it. Thanks to El Capitan.

She didn’t even know why she was driving up here today.

Maybe because she needed to see something else. The emptiness, maybe. The height. The air. Maybe to find a place that felt familiar, even if it was nothing but a borrowed memory.

The car was stopped. Engine off. The cabin wrapped in a tense kind of calm, broken only by the wind brushing softly against the metal. V stayed still, her fingers resting on the latch of the small mechanical compartment she’d just opened, the one where she kept unused things. She’d been looking for something else. Morbid Night. But her fingers had found something else instead. Two dog tags. Johnny’s.

She exhaled.

They were still there. Always. Hanging from their chain, the metal cold and slightly tarnished. She picked them up in her palm. Not too tightly. Just enough to feel their weight.

And the words came back. In flashes, in glitches, in lines burned into her skull like engravings on a soldier’s tag.

“Imagine if they sent us to the front, forced us to fight side by side…”

“Would you take a bullet for me? Huh?”

“These tags belonged to a guy who gave his life to save me, back in Mexico.”

“I want this clear: I’m not gonna hurt you. When the time comes, I’ll give my life for you. I’ll let you wipe me out.”

“These tags are the proof of my promise.”

She froze.

Not out of sadness.

Out of vertigo.

She lifted them slowly. The metal was cold, almost damp with silence. A relic. A proof. Something he’d given her back when they shared everything — heart, mind, body. And now? Now she didn’t even know if she should keep them. She’d already packed six boxes. Six damn boxes. Stuffed to the brim with Johnny’s things, left at his door like some brutal statement. She’d wanted to cut ties, end it, give him back what was his. But not these. Not the tags. She couldn’t put them in a box. Too small. Too important. Too heavy.

And there, in the muted silence of the desert, with the distant echoes of Night City — a muffled bassline, the wail of a siren, maybe even a stray gunshot — she asked herself the question. Had she been too harsh? Had she forgotten what it felt like to have someone inside your head, in your breath, in every damn heartbeat? She didn’t want to answer. She slipped the tags into her pocket without another thought. She’d figure it out later. Maybe. Maybe not.

She opened the door and stepped out. The air was dry. Cold. The kind of cold that sticks to the leather of your vest, that creeps into the holes of your sneakers uninvited. She closed the door behind her, quietly. Then, instinctively, her gaze swept the surroundings. Not a single movement. Not a single heat signature. She never dropped her guard, not even here. It wasn’t just habit. It was survival.

Ahead of her, the drive-in. Abandoned. Frozen. Still there.

She walked towards it, calm steps, unhurried. The neon signs that once lit the snack bars and reel rental stands flickered faintly, barely visible in the dark. Only dull reflections remained on the broken windows, dirty glows cast by Night City’s distant lights. The giant screen at the back of the lot stood like a gravestone. Scratched. Torn apart by time. It looked like a misprinted memory. A relic from another world.

Everything was still the same. The benches, the rusty terminals, the gutted vending machines. Even the smell: a mix of dust, old oil, and melted plastic. This wasn’t a dead place. It was a suspended place. Untouched. V shivered — the kind of shiver that doesn’t come from the cold, but from too much silence.

She walked slowly toward the area where cars used to park to watch the screenings. The old tire marks were still etched into the dry ground. And that’s when she saw it: the car. The very one Johnny and Rogue had sat on that night. She didn’t remember every detail. Not exactly. But something twisted in her gut. She didn’t want to remember. She almost thanked the sky for not giving her a perfect memory. Whatever happened here, she didn’t want to know.

She turned away, immediately, and kept moving. Without a word. She crossed the lot slowly until she reached the back of the giant screen, her boots crunching against forgotten gravel. She lifted her head. From behind, the structure looked even taller, even emptier. A cracked white monolith, carrying the weight of thousands of eyes that had once stared at it. But now, no one was looking. And yet, it still stood.

She stopped there. Just stood.

Arms crossed. Dog tags in her pocket. Weapons at her waist. Her breath unsteady.

The sky had shifted to a dirty indigo, the horizon drowned in a gray too pale to be peaceful. A dry wind sometimes lifted the dead dust off the cracked ground, making the gravel creak between the skeletons of abandoned cars. The old drive-in was empty, a hollow carcass of an open-air cinema left to rot, its giant screen broken by time, like an eye closed on someone else’s dreams. V stood in the center of that ghostly lot, her hands buried in the pockets of her old sweatpants, her sneakers stained by dirt. She hadn’t slept, not really. Nor eaten. She had just driven for a long time, with an empty stare, until she stopped here, without any real reason. Or maybe to find one.

She looked up at the big screen. Empty. No light, no images. Just a dusty white wall. Without thinking, she walked closer. The structure creaked as her hand grabbed the faded yellow ladder, one of the two climbing up the back. The smell of rust and grime hit her nose. She sneezed. A sharp, nervous sound. At least it reminded her she was still alive. Slowly, she started climbing. One foot after the other. The cold rungs pressing into her palms. She wasn’t here for the view. She was here to be far. Far from Night City. Far from everything. Up there, at the top of the screen, she settled down, knees pulled close, and stared out into the distance.

The city gleamed like an illusion. Thousands of lights, neon, towers cutting through the haze like shards of glass. The black silhouette of the Arasaka Tower still rose on the horizon, arrogant, untouched, indifferent. V stared at it for a long moment. She could’ve laughed. She could’ve cried. She did neither. Just a quiet sigh. The weight of the world on her shoulders, but no direction left. Her hand went to her neck, to the little pendant still hanging there. A bullet, polished and carved, tied to a thin chain. Dexter had put a bullet in her head. And Misty had turned it into a good-luck charm. Ironic. Absurd. Perfectly logical, in a world that hasn’t made sense for a long time.

Her commlink blinked faintly in her head. Unread messages. Plenty of them. She didn’t bother to read them. Just the names. Johnny. Again. Ten messages. Maybe more. She didn’t want to. Not now. Not tonight. He would’ve said she was running away, that she refused to face things. That she loved this kind of situation where everything goes wrong, where she has to rip out a piece of her own soul just to keep going. He would’ve said she’s addicted to danger, chasing chaos like a drug. And maybe… maybe he would’ve been right. But she knew one thing: she never had a choice. Survival isn’t a hobby. It’s what you do when there’s nothing else left.

She thought of Misty. Of the tarot readings. Of the cards she’d drawn, over and over. The lovers. Always that damn The lovers card. Like fate kept whispering a name without ever saying it. She was tired of it. Tired of believing. Tired of hoping. Tired of not knowing. If it was meant for Johnny, then why all this mess? Why so much pain, so much death? And if it wasn’t him, then why did that card keep coming back, like some cosmic joke? She’d once hoped it would be someone else. Someone she hadn’t met yet. Someone good. But all she had found was fire, fear, betrayal, and impossible choices.

She thought back to everything she had done. Saving So Mi. Crossing the Blackwall. Facing Adam Smasher. Standing up to Arasaka. Surviving. She had achieved what no one believed possible. And now, she had no implants. No missions. No voice in her head. Nothing. She was alive. But for what? To survive again? To wander through ruins with no future, like a shadow of herself? She could have become a fixer. She had thought about it. She had even talked to Misty. But without contacts, without a team, without backup, it was suicide. And who would trust a legend with no chrome? Even the most powerful fixers were wary of ghosts.

Work for the government? She had received an offer from Reed. A position at the FIA. An international spy. Far from Night City. Far from this mess. Far from Johnny. But also far from everything she knew. Far from who she was. And the other path, the one Marla had taught her… taking over a garage. Living off the grid. Fixing bikes, trucks, tinkering in some remote corner of the desert. Maybe. Maybe it could have worked. Maybe it would even be good. But leaving meant giving up. Giving up everything she had been. And she didn’t know yet if she could do that.

The wind blew harder. A gust made the screen behind her tremble. V gripped the pendant in her hand a little tighter. She closed her eyes. She wanted a sign. Just one. A damn card. A damn voice. Something. Anything. She didn’t want to stay stuck here, trapped in this limbo. She didn’t want everything she had fought for to die in indifference. She wanted to know. She wanted to understand. She wanted an answer.

“Fuck…” she muttered. Her voice got lost in the wind. She opened her eyes again, staring at the distant lights of Night City. Then, lower, like a strangled prayer:

“Give me a sign. Something. A fucking tarot card, for god’s sake. Anything… but not this emptiness. Not this.”

She stayed there for a long time, staring at the skyscrapers dancing far away. Nothing came. No miracle. No card. Just silence, and the dust of the world.

She remained there, perched on the edge of the screen, her knees pulled close, her arms wrapped around her legs, staring at the distant towers of Night City. The city looked calm, distant, but full of its toxic whispers and shattered memories. She let out a sigh, lost in that suspended moment, when a dull noise, almost unreal, suddenly tore through the air.

BOOM.

The ground shook. The echo rolled through her ribs, awakening instincts she thought buried. She lifted her head, senses on high alert, her brows furrowing. A second sound. Then a third. A series of engines, powerful, polished — not like the gangs, nor even regular corpos. No. Too smooth. Too precise. Too assured.

She leaned forward carefully, peeking at the dusty parking lot below the drive-in. Four vehicles had just entered, casting beams of light into the twilight. Three of them circled the fourth, like some ritual, a guard of honor almost ceremonial. They all stopped in a perfectly measured choreography, in dead silence.

V squinted. These cars… they weren’t gang chrome. They weren’t corpo armor either. They were more… theatrical. Classy. Unsettling.

The doors slammed one by one, like part of a performance. First, silhouettes in suits. Stiff. Prepared. Not valets, not bureaucrats. High-end mercs, or worse. They scanned the area with that dangerous kind of nonchalance that only comes from knowing you hold all the power.

Then, the door of the central vehicle opened.

She felt her heart tighten. Slowly, a man stepped out. Hands in his pockets, glasses with opaque lenses, his silhouette calm yet strangely commanding. No visible weapon. No words. Just that presence.

V tensed up. A gust of wind slapped her face.

Mr. Hands.

Impossible. Since when does he leave Dogtown? Since when does he leave his den? This guy — she knew — moved less often than the statues on corpo plazas. He ran the world from afar. He watched. He infiltrated. He delegated. He did not step out. Ever.

She stared at him, frozen. He walked forward with a calm, measured pace. The mercs moved aside instantly, as if his presence scorched the air.

V bit her lip, backed up slowly on the grimy sheet metal of the screen. She glanced down. Climb. Now.

She didn’t have her implants anymore. No boosted legs, no controlled fall. If she slipped, she was done. So she clenched her teeth, carefully climbed back down the two faded yellow ladders, her sneakers scraping the worn rungs. Every move weighed. Every second echoed in the electric silence.

When she finally hit the ground, the cars were still purring. Sand crunched under her soles. She lifted her head. Hands was already waiting. Arms crossed, slightly tilted, almost… amused.

She approached.

Slow steps. Controlled. But her heart was pounding like hell.

He was sizing her up. He knew. He knew everything.

That she had nothing left to offer. No plan. That she was just an empty legend, a rumor clinging to dust.

But he was there.

Right in front of her.

She swallowed hard. Straightened up. Looked him in the eyes, or tried to.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Didn’t put on any mask.

“Mr. Hands.”

“Ah, there you are.”

The voice was smooth, modulated like a calibrated wave. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

V arched a brow, just slightly. Not a smirk, not a smile. Just that tiny crease that said everything: everywhere? Really?

She answered, her voice drier than she meant it to be: “If you were really looking, why not try calling me?”

Silence. Then that smile. The one that cracked across his face like a fissure in marble.

“Oh, you know…” he said, lowering his head a touch, almost theatrical. “I wanted to see you in person. After your little accident.”

He let it hang a second, then picked back up, light, almost mocking: “Or rather… your little operation.”

V’s heart tightened. She didn’t show it. But inside, it rumbled. How does he know that? She hadn’t told anyone. Even her closest had been fed filtered info. Only… those who really listen to walls. Or worse, those who build them.

She looked around. The guards. The mercs. Closed faces. Well-dressed war machines. Nothing leaked from their expressions. But everything in them screamed: we know everything.

He looked at her again. Then added, almost gently: “We should get in. Talk somewhere… mobile. Walls have ears, and you’re a magnet for compromising memories.”

He gestured to the door.

And opened it.

Himself.

She froze a second. No sarcasm. No pressure. No threat. He had just opened a door for her. For V. The one people shoved into cars with a rifle butt, grabbed by the collar, forced into shitty deals. This was an elegant gesture. Polite. Controlled. A reminder he owned the scene.

And she… she could only follow. She had nothing to offer. Not even a distress signal.

She slipped into the car without a word. The inside smelled of leather, electronics, and an almost clinical cleanliness. She didn’t know if she should feel honored or dissected.

Mr. Hands joined her on the other side, closed the door slowly. One of the mercs got in up front. The rest fell back into formation:

The first car pulled out of the lot, tires lightly scraping the dust. Then Hands’s. Then the last two, in cover. A fluid, organized convoy. A moving power cell.

And farther out, as they left the drive-in behind, the cars spaced out. The headlights in V’s rearview scattered like the memories of a bygone era.

The silence in the car was broken only by the muffled hum of the idling engine and the distant horns, dulled by the tinted windows. V sat still, her gaze fixed on the city—not so much to admire it, but to read it. The neon lights reflected in her pupils like luminous scars. The cars moved at a crawl, trapped in a traffic jam with unclear origins: an accident, a gang crackdown, or maybe yet another “cleanup” operation between two angry corpo factions. She barely blinked. Not because the scene was unfamiliar, but because it had become unbearably familiar. Every day seemed to hold three different wars. Every night, another explosion, closer than before.

Behind her, Mr. Hands adjusted his cuff, as if trying to impose order on a world that had long forgotten it.

“Since your… extended stay in the clinic, let’s say, the city hasn’t so much changed as… tilted. A subtle slope, almost graceful, but… irreversibly downward.”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke. He observed the same city she did, but he read it in his own way. His tone was calm, precise, as though dictating a letter to a future that would never arrive.

“Once, gunfire echoed for the honor of a gang, or for the territory of a petty king with grandiose dreams. Today, it’s the heirs of the empires themselves who take up arms. It’s no longer the pawns tearing each other apart… but the kings and queens trampling the board, all crowded onto the same square.”

He took a slow breath, as if savoring his own metaphor before letting it settle in the air.

“Since Arasaka lost ground… everyone is rushing to gnaw at the scraps. A feast without a table. Just teeth sinking into concrete.”

A distant explosion, faint and muffled, made the window beside V tremble slightly. She didn’t flinch. She counted the flashes of light the way others count stars.

“Traffic has become a strategy game, you see. No longer about reaching a destination, but about avoiding becoming a permanent fixture. Every intersection might hide an ambush, every tunnel could close up like a mechanical throat. And in this cacophony, even those who once ruled in the shadows… are stepping into the light.”

He finally turned his head toward her, not to seek eye contact, but as if to check whether she was still breathing the same city he was.

“What most call chaos, I call… transition. But now, even I struggle to find its melody.”

Then, as if answering himself:

“There’s a tension in the air. Not waiting for an event… but for a collapse. Something’s brewing. And it’s no longer ambition.”

A heavy silence.

V, without speaking, lowered the window slightly. The city’s smell rushed in like a brutal reminder: fuel, sweat, suspended rain, reconstituted meat. A smell of brewing war. She muttered, almost to herself:

“You take down one corpo… and three others take its place.”

Mr. Hands smiled faintly.

“A game without end. But with more and more players. And fewer and fewer rules.”

He slowly raised his hand, pointing toward the massive billboard in the distance, where Militech’s logo spun lazily, imposing, almost hypnotic.

“You see… One might think some have won. That some have feasted on the void left by Arasaka. But in that void, we fight over irradiated crumbs. It’s no longer a matter of power. It’s a matter of presence. Simply existing here is already a conquest.”

He continued, as if responding to an unspoken thought:

“You disappear for two years… and the children think themselves kings. But they’re kings playing with grenades. They didn’t build the chessboard, V. They found it abandoned… and they fight to break it, not to play on it.”

Then, slowly, almost against his own will:

“Too much chaos.”

He said nothing more for a few seconds. As if he’d revealed more than he intended.

The leather seat creaked softly when Mr. Hands leaned toward the central console. In the heavy silence of the limousine, there was a discreet pshht, followed by a refined click, almost too refined. A soft light illuminated the compartment, revealing a chrome stand slowly opening—like a vault in a silent opera.

From that stand, a bottle emerged. Not just any bottle. A slender, black bottle, its gold-engraved label gleaming with an almost ancient arrogance. V frowned, just slightly.

Champagne.

The name wasn’t just a name, but a poem, written in fine, winding letters, as if elegance alone could justify the price. Mr. Hands lifted it slowly, theatrically, almost ceremonially, then tilted it slightly toward V.

“A gift. Or a pretext. Your choice. Forgive this small breach of decorum… but certain occasions deserve nothing less than good bubbles.”

Mr. Hands took the bottle with a studied grace, tilting it gently before popping the cork without a sound. No burst, no festive explosion. Just a sigh. A quiet sigh. Like a breath teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Two flutes appeared from the same compartment. Long, delicate crystal tulips, as fine as well-crafted threats. He picked one up, filled it halfway. Then the other. And with deliberate slowness, almost ceremonial, he extended the second flute to V.

V regarded the liquid with a neutral, almost detached gaze. The fine bubbles rose to the surface like memories one would rather forget. She brought the glass closer to the side light and read the name in her mind, silently, instinctively. A vintage so rare it hadn’t been produced since 2045. A bottle like this cost as much as a modest apartment in Heywood—or most of Glen’s flats. And she had only ever seen it served in Embers’ penthouse suites, or at parties that usually ended with someone dead in the pool.

And probably just as strong as a hit to the temple, if you drank it too fast.

She said nothing. She simply swirled the flute slightly, letting the bubbles detach and rise in steady streams. The scent was subtle… but treacherous. Sweet, spicy, with a cloying note that promised more than intoxication: a well-aimed daze. And in a sealed car, with no visible exit, it felt like a delicate trap.

In her head, a voice muttered:

Champagne? After talking about dead kings, trampled chessboards, and grenades with no pins?

It was almost grotesque. Or maybe it was the purest definition of Night City: popping luxury corks while the world burns outside the window.

But she said nothing. She had learned, over time, that asking too many questions wasn’t a sign of intelligence here. More like recklessness.

Mr. Hands, with that light yet precise smile, breathed:

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take you back myself. You have nothing to fear. And besides… I know the address. North Oak, isn’t it? The last villa to be built there. A rather honorary place, they say. For Myers’ savior.”

The implication was clear. He knew where she lived. He knew what she was worth. He probably knew who she had saved. And above all… he knew just how valuable—or vulnerable—she had become.

V lifted the flute to her lips but didn’t drink. She only inhaled the aroma of the drink, like smelling a dead bouquet. And in her silence, one thought cut coldly through:

In Night City… even toasts are suspect. Maybe the poison isn’t in the drink, but in the intention.

She barely looked away. An ordinary civilian would never refuse such a glass.

An ordinary civilian would probably be dead soon after. She, on the other hand, was playing a different game.

V didn’t reply. She took the glass between her fingers, weighed it, observed the reflections of the liquid like one observes a beast trapped at the bottom of a jar. And in her head, a thought flared up:

A poisoned gift… for a girl who’s already died twice. That’s what this is. And he calls it respect.

Hands continued, almost dreamily, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her:

“North Oak… Once a den for exhausted elites, now a carefully locked refuge. It’s not just a neighborhood, it’s a social mirage. The walls are made of greenery, the trees are intelligent, and even the security drones look polite.”

He gave a small laugh before adding, brushing his own flute which he still hadn’t sipped:

“I must admit, your taste is refined. Vines, pale woods, open structures… That blend of discreet jungle and pure modernity. You’ve built a palace that hides its own grandeur. And that, I respect.”

V kept staring outside. Through the tinted window, the city slid by in halting bursts, interrupted by traffic lights, checkpoints, and flashing sirens. Everything seemed breathless, tense, as if Night City itself was holding its breath. She wanted to answer. She wanted to say: If those damn security bots did their job, I wouldn’t see Johnny sneaking over three times a week pretending he’s just visiting Kerry. But she stayed quiet. Again.

Since when did I start shutting up like this? she wondered. Since when am I afraid my own words might come back like a bullet to the back of my neck?

And still, she kept listening.

Hands, with that voice polished by years of diplomacy and intrigue, continued:

“I wondered… for a moment… what it would feel like to live in a place like that. If I too was protected, admired, or simply untouchable. But you can’t escape what you’ve built, can you? Pacifica, Dogtown… that’s where my roots remain. Buried deep in cracked concrete.”

She heard the words, but her mind was elsewhere.

She saw Johnny again, standing in front of her gate, guitar slung over his shoulder, cigarette between his lips, as if he belonged in the scenery.

‘Oh, well look at that. Your door wasn’t locked, so I figured you were waiting for someone interesting. Lucky for you, it’s me.’

He had leaned against the wall, boots dusty and that mocking grin plastered across his face. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had added:

‘I was at Kerry’s, then I saw your place. Thought maybe you missed me too much, huh? So I took one for the team. Came to make sure you’re not screwing things up too badly… seeing as you don’t have any implants left to keep you busy.’

A sigh escaped her lips. She finally brought the glass to her mouth, barely touched the champagne. It had that sweet, treacherous taste of something you can’t refuse — but should never accept.

Hands was still watching her. She knew it, without even looking.

“You’ve returned to a world that forgot to wait for you,” he finally said.

“And here I am, offering champagne like one offers a shield to a statue. Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned. Or simply realistic.”

She didn’t answer. But in her head, a phrase, cold and cutting, kept looping:

This world never wanted me alive. It wants me as a trophy.

He raised his glass, glancing at the car’s transparent roof where helicopters were gathering at the site of an as-yet-unidentified incident. He rotated the glass once, like caressing the memory of a toast never made.

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

V turned her head, intrigued, following his gaze. She hadn’t even noticed the glass panel on the car’s ceiling — too focused on her own caution, she’d forgotten to pay attention to her surroundings.

Mr. Hands, after a contemplative silence, let his words slide out like a smooth blade over glass:

“Ah… Night City, Night City, Night City… That decadent old lady dressed up every morning in neon… and left unwashed come nightfall.”

He made a vague gesture upward, toward the ceiling.

“They say she was born from a dream. A certain Richard Night, a visionary and arrogant industrialist, believed he could build the perfect city… with concrete, steel… and illusions.

He wanted her autonomous. Free from the chains of any government. A sanctified ark where money would speak louder than laws. Where anyone — poor or powerful — could buy their peace, their freedom, their safety.

And you know what? He almost pulled it off.”

He poured himself another sip, unhurried.

“Petrochem, Arasaka, EBM, Asukaga & Finch… they all threw their chips on the table. For them, Coronado City was an investment. For Night, it was a work of art. But you see… even idealistic queens can be cornered by a single mob pawn.

The gangs, the cartels, the crime syndicates… everyone wanted their share of the dream. And when Richard tried to play the moralist, refused to bend to the mob… they erased him.

A bullet to the head. Not very poetic, but efficient.”

He sighed, almost with a funereal tenderness.

“And like every good tragedy… the name changed. Coronado City became Night City.

Ironic, don’t you think? Giving the dreamer’s name to the ruins of his dream.”

A silence settled. But this time, V didn’t just listen. She lifted her head slightly, gaze sharp, almost cold.

Then her voice rose — calm, firm, unflinching.

“Then came the years of blood. The corps and the mob families carved up the ruins like dogs around a bone.”

Mr. Hands froze. He didn’t interrupt. He listened.

“And when the Fourth Corporate War erupted, it was the final blow. A nuclear bomb in the heart of the city, a cursed engram in a relic… and a legend that refused to die.”

A shiver crossed the space, almost imperceptible.

“And now? 2079? It’s not a city anymore. It’s a constant theater. Each district a stage. Each gang a troupe. Each corpo a director. And me…”

She paused. Her gaze darkened.

“…I’m one of the last witnesses still standing. A victim, yes. But also a living reminder of what this city does to people — all people.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. Mr. Hands let a faint smile curve his lips. He set down his glass, tilting his head slightly.

“Checkmate.”

Then, with a tone both amused and sincere:

“It’s flattering to see you finally taking an interest in politics, V. It suits you. Words often cut sharper than blades.”

But she answered bluntly:

“I didn’t have a choice. When you’ve got no implants, when you sleep half the time, and spend the other half driving alone just to keep from breaking apart… you end up listening. Seeing. And understanding.”

He nodded slowly. No congratulations. No pity. Just understanding.

“Then, if you want advice: don’t waste your time trying to understand what’s black or white.

Try to understand what it’s making of you.

Because this city reshapes everything. Kings into pawns. Angels into demons. And hope… into memory.”

V let out a short laugh. Without joy. Almost painful.

She turned away, arms folded on her knees, sitting on the back seat as if the leather had grown too cold against her spine. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling window. Above, the sky was pitch black. Dotted with searchlights and police strobes, streaked by the slow crawl of a helicopter. Like a mechanical bird of prey, hunting.

She spoke softly, almost to herself.

“Sometimes I think we’re living in purgatory. Like this city’s just a contest… to crown the biggest monster still breathing.”

Hands said nothing. He waited.

“It’s stupid, right… I spend my days doing nothing. Just… sitting there. On the floor, usually. Staring at the plants they put in the garden. Expensive, rare, beautiful stuff.”

She laughed again, this time more nervously.

“They put in a little pond with koi fish. Like that’s supposed to calm something.

But you know what I see? Just the reflections. Just reflections. Of who I was. And… what I’ve become.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

V was sitting slightly sideways, gaze tilted upward, her back resting against the leather. The champagne flute was still in her hand, almost untouched.

She exhaled, finally.

“You know what scares me the most sometimes? It’s realizing that… I’ve walked through every single circle without even noticing them.”

Mr. Hands slightly turned his head toward her, without interrupting his drink.

“Lust. Greed. Gluttony. Wrath. Envy. I’ve been through them all. Even pride, back when I still thought I could save the world with just my two arms and a bike. And now… now I’m here, sitting in a damn limo, drinking overpriced champagne… while I could die tomorrow from a simple infection, because I don’t have a single medical implant left to keep me alive.”

She started to laugh. A nervous, disillusioned laugh, but not cynical.

“Fuck. I’m really talking about the seven deadly sins to a fixer. Is this what my life is now? Realizing how absurd it all is? Because… damn, I’m spilling my confessions to a fixer. Not to a shrink. Not even to a friend.”

She shook her head, lips tightening, and added more softly:

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… overshare. I guess I get carried away, with everything that’s been dumped on me. It’s become… a bad habit.”

A small laugh escaped Hands’ throat. Slowly, he set his glass down, looking at her with a mix of mischief and genuine consideration.

“If I’d known you were going to give me that kind of confession, V… I’d have booked a pavilion up north in Pacifica, with fountains, cushions, and therapists on retainer. But I have to say… this conversation is oddly pleasant. Refreshing.”

She burst out laughing — this time sincerely, but with exhaustion.

“You’re impossible.”

He tilted his head, wearing half a smile.

She raised her glass, still gazing at the neon-lit sky. Then, without warning, she downed the rest of the champagne in one go.

Mr. Hands, surprised, let out a quiet but real laugh. Not mocking. Rather charmed by the absurd elegance of the moment.

“Bottoms up. Now that… that’s reconciled me with unexpected evenings.”

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“Figured one more sin wouldn’t make a difference…”

He raised his own glass, as if to toast this improvised philosophy.

“And you know what, V? These moments… they do me good. Believe it or not, after everything I have to manage with Pacifica, Dogtown, corpos trying to buy memories, and mercs treating me like their mother hen… I need this kind of breathing space as much as you do.”

The car continued its course. Outside, the city kept playing its endless theater.

Silence returned to the car. Soft, muffled, almost soothing. The laughter of V and Mr. Hands still floated in the air, like a rare perfume in an environment too often filled with strategic quiet.

Up front, the driver felt a subtle vibration through the seatback. A slight tremor. Discreet, but he didn’t miss it: it was the first time he’d heard a real laugh, genuine and resonant, coming from the back seat.

Oh, sure, Mr. Hands could laugh. He laughed in society, he laughed for appearances, he laughed to charm a boardroom or crush a negotiation. He even laughed with his kids, sometimes. But this laugh? This laugh was different.

A little human, a little free.

Surprisingly, but not shockingly, the driver barely raised an eyebrow before focusing back on the road. He finally saw the traffic ahead starting to clear. A few cars moved forward. He lowered the sliding partition just enough for his voice — polite, steady — to enter the bubble of calm.

“Sir… Traffic is moving again. We’re approaching North Oak.”

Hands didn’t even turn his head. He simply smiled, as if he had already guessed.

“Indeed.”

The partition closed again with a muted click. Outside, the glow of neon lights began to give way to the rarer glow of private street lamps — the subtle luxury of North Oak.

V, curious, raised her eyes toward Hands.

He didn’t speak right away. He simply finished his flute, setting the glass down on the small tray between them. Then he tilted his head slightly, fingers interlaced over his knee.

His voice returned, deeper, more focused.

“Ever since Hansen… shall we say, stopped being an active element in the equation… I’ve been able to finally extend my influence. Dogtown. Pacifica. Two zones that used to cancel each other out. Today, they’re under control. My control.”

He paused. Then added, lower:

“But it’s not enough.”

The words dropped bluntly, like a discreet guillotine in the soft hush of the limousine. V stared at him, slightly caught off guard. She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head a little.

“Oh yeah? You want more than Pacifica and Dogtown? Because, if I may… those two areas are already the most unpredictable in all of Night City. Holding them both at once is already a monumental challenge. And if you start adding more zones on top of that, I don’t give great odds for your survival.”

Hands smiled, faintly mocking but mostly amused by V’s bluntness. He swirled the half-empty glass in his hand.

“You’re not wrong. And yet, that’s where the whole problem lies…”

He let the silence linger, then added with elegant irony:

“I’ve always had a strange affinity for miracles. And sometimes, I have to admit, I am the miracle.”

He paused again, his gaze lost in the night beyond the windows.

Then, more serious:

“Night City… isn’t what it used to be. Maybe that’s the kind of thing old men say, but here, it’s a fact. Too many dangers, too many unstable fronts. And the worst part is that some fixers no longer manage their own sectors. Not because they’re corrupted. No… but because they’re tired.”

He calmly set his glass down on the tray.

“I’ve started losing people. Not my own, but those from other networks. Allies. Relays. Because the connection is breaking at the root. Because those who should hold the reins… no longer do. And districts are beginning to crumble.”

Then he turned his head toward V.

“I suppose you’ve already heard what’s happening in Heywood. Sebastián Ibarra. The old Padre. He’s seriously starting to consider stepping down.”

V frowned slightly. She thought about it. She remembered. She had run into him one night, after those two missing years, after Jackie. They had met again several times, always in that same corner, always in the silence of alleys that smelled like death. She remembered his words, whispered at the bar, half-breathed, half a sigh: ‘One day… I’ll have to pass the torch.’

She hadn’t taken him seriously. And yet…

Mr. Hands continued, as if reading her mind:

“He’s confided it to a few close people, apparently. Nothing official, of course, but he’s thinking about it. And he’s not the only one.”

He laced his fingers together, resting them on his knee, his gaze still turned toward the night.

“Westbrook is starting to waver too.”

His voice wasn’t alarmist, but there was a weight of experience in it.

“The Queen of the district, Wakako, still holds the reins. Better than most. She knows her territory like the lines of her own hand. She still works miracles, I won’t deny that. I respect her deeply. Her reputation is gold, and I count her among the few I listen to without filtering a word.”

He paused.

“But… she’s past her prime. Not in a crude sense, no. It’s just that even she… knows. She feels the city’s pace slipping away from her. She still runs it, yes. But she doesn’t ride it like she used to. She can’t pretend it’s the same anymore.”

He leaned slightly forward, the shadow of his coat following the motion.

“She still pulls the strings. Manipulates them masterfully. But her moves are slower. And I can see it. Maybe it’s not visible to the naked eye. Mercs, messengers, partners passing through — they don’t notice. But a fixer? A fixer sees the strings tighten, the lines shifting, the priorities changing.”

He loosened his shoulders slightly, almost in a sigh.

“She’s preparing her exit. Slowly. With dignity. And I can only respect that choice. It’s not cowardice. It’s an art.”

V said nothing. She didn’t cut him off. She just stared at the black night beyond the glass, her reflection mingling with the neon lights dancing on the façades of the buildings. And in her head, the image of the Atlantis resurfaced.

That time she had talked about it with Misty. The barely spoken desire to reopen that legendary place. To breathe life back into that mythical club buried by decades and ashes.

But Misty had just shrugged, gentle, resigned. She had told her it depended on the districts. And Westbrook? That was Wakako’s domain. And Wakako didn’t accept projects like that lightly.

Too dangerous. Too visible. Too expensive.

And even if V had smiled back then, she knew. She knew that renovating the Atlantis would put a spotlight on her. On her intentions. On her weaknesses. On her strengths too, perhaps, but in this city, showing both at once was giving the vultures a roadmap to strike.

And the worst part was, she wasn’t armed anymore to keep them at bay.

She lowered her gaze for a moment. No combat implants. Nothing that could intimidate. Nothing that could stop an ambush in an alley, a provocation, or a revenge strike. She didn’t want to kill to cement her authority. She didn’t want to be a name feared for the wrong reasons. But in this world, intentions didn’t matter.

And she knew it.

Mr. Hands, still calm, spoke — as if he had heard her thoughts.

“I know you have plans for Westbrook. That you might be dreaming of rebuilding that forgotten jewel… the Atlantis.”

V barely flinched, almost imperceptibly. She raised her eyes toward him. He smiled. Subtly.

“But you know as well as I do: Wakako will refuse. Not because she despises you, no. It’s nothing personal. It’s strategic. She values her balance. And in the current state of things… reopening a legendary club in an already volatile district would be like lighting a torch in a powder keg.”

He slowly placed both hands on his knees, his voice growing deeper.

“And between us… fixers talk. Always. We listen to what the city whispers. And the city says you’ve changed. That you no longer wear your old implants. That your style, your power, your reflexes… have been stripped away. Surgically.”

He turned his face slightly toward her. No mockery. Just the cold weight of fact.

“Even Wakako — who never moves without reason — even she wouldn’t spend a single day without at least one defensive implant. Even she wouldn’t dare remain unprotected in her own territory. But you… you can’t fight anymore. At least not without consequence. And they all know it.”

He fixed her with a steady gaze.

“That’s why no fixer has called you back. Since your return. Not one.”

V felt a weight settle deep in her chest. It was true. She had sensed it herself. But hearing it now, from a man as informed as Hands… it made it real. Irreversible.

She inhaled softly, lifted her gaze, and let out a low, heavy, bitter:

“Fuck.”

She didn’t shout. It wasn’t an explosive anger. It was dry frustration, contained.

This is what it felt like — to be vulnerable in this city. To be seen. To be read like an open book. To have nothing left to inspire fear. Even her reputation was crumbling without anyone having to touch it.

And somewhere deep down, she wondered if this was how Johnny had felt, in the end.

When the world had moved on without him.

When the strikes of his guitar no longer made the city tremble.

Mr. Hands didn’t move right away. He let the tension soak in. Then, with a soft click of his tongue — almost amused by his own reputation — he murmured:

“But you know me. I make miracles.”

He crossed his legs again, slowly, with calculated elegance.

“It’s not in my nature to show up merely to deliver bad news. Drama is like a wine that must be carefully measured. And me? I’ve always preferred to balance it with a twist of opportunity.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if savoring the moment.

“I come with plans, V. Always. It’s my signature. And even when the city turns its back on you, there are… less-traveled paths. Riskier, yes. But sometimes they lead farther than the official roads.”

He leaned forward, resting gently on his knees.

“Biotechnica.”

He spoke the word with a mix of reverence and caution.

“I know, I know. They don’t inspire trust. And you’re right. None of their contracts come without a price too heavy to bear. But…”

A pause. He played with the tension.

“It’s not them I propose you serve. It’s their obsession I suggest we exploit.”

He finally smiled.

“You see… their Regenesis program has recently reached a stage that very few know about. Hybrid implants. A new approach, one not based on brute optimization, but on organic tolerance. A soft fusion between cybernetics and living tissue. A workaround, so to speak.”

V frowned but said nothing. She waited.

He slowly raised his hand and brushed his fingers against a small hidden button on the console in front of him.

A soft, almost inaudible click.

The smooth surface of the table shifted before their eyes. The glass panel slid open, revealing a circular cavity where a discreet, black, chrome-ringed shard rested.

Hands picked it up between two fingers, turned it slowly between his knuckles, then placed it with care on the edge of the table, within V’s reach.

She looked at it.

That shard. Small. Precise. Perfectly polished.

The kind of object that could hold a miracle… or a new curse. She reached out, almost mechanically, took it between her fingers, and tilted it under the dim light of the cabin.

Her heart slowed, as if her whole body knew she shouldn’t rush.

Biotechnica.

She didn’t even need to say the word to herself. The thought alone was too much. Just holding that shard made her shiver. Her fingers tightened slightly. Part of her wanted to drop it, to place it back on the table like you’d put down poison.

But another part… hesitated.

Hadn’t she already seen worse? Hadn’t she already crossed places no one ever comes back from? Could something as tiny as this still make a difference?

She inhaled. The air suddenly felt heavier.

And yet, she knew. She knew what they’d done.

She saw again the protein farms, the stench, the silence. The human remains floating in vats. The hidden shards in corners no one was supposed to find.

She still heard the stories: women reduced to living wombs. Mercs shot dead for trying to free them. The ruined church, its faithful vanished without a trace. Joanne Koch, that monster, responsible for the deaths of dozens of nomads. Experiments on wolves. On children.

She wasn’t making this up. She had seen the data, read the shards. She had met the survivors. She had held their hands.

And now, she was holding this.

The devil’s shard.

She closed her eyes for a second.

It wasn’t Hands that worried her. She knew he wouldn’t have given her this unless he saw a serious path forward. It wasn’t him lying. Not today.

It was the world behind the shard. The labs. The contracts. The testing.

Trusting a corpo, even indirectly… was like dancing with a blade at your throat.

But if there was a chance? Even a slim one?

She reopened her eyes.

And placed the shard back on the table.

A long silence followed, barely broken by the distant flicker of Night City’s neon signs pulsing through the tinted windows.

She stared at Hands, her jaw tight.

“You know exactly what Biotechnica are. Those bastards.”

Hands didn’t answer, his gaze inviting her to continue.

“Sector 4 off-limits. Protein farms that reek of death. Shards buried with recycled human remains, traffickers taken out in silence…”

She sighed, almost nauseated.

“Women forcibly impregnated who escaped their labs, two mercs hired by Dakota to save them… executed like dogs.”

Hands nodded slowly, his expression grave.

V continued, sharper this time:

“A priest writing about his missing congregation… and an entire church wiped off the map. Joanne Koch. Red Ocher. Genocides hidden behind lines of code and autopsy reports. Human cells inside wolf embryos.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“I’ve read those shards. All of them. I’ve seen what they’ve done. Meat laced with human remains, neurotoxic meds, netrunners driven to suicide for speaking out.”

A silence, then she added in a lower tone:

“Sacha Yakovleva.”

This time, Hands lifted his eyes. His face stayed calm, but a faint tension betrayed a certain respect.

“An exceptional netrunner… and a voice that disturbed many.”

“Her mother died because of their damn painkillers. Biotechnica knew. And they kept selling them. Sacha blew the whistle to N54. And it cost her her life.”

She straightened up, her gaze hard.

“So don’t ask me to trust those bastards. I don’t have a short memory.”

Hands folded his hands in front of him.

“I’m not asking. I’m offering.”

He paused.

“I don’t need to convince you of what you already know. And I’m certainly not going to deny the obvious: Biotechnica has blood on its hands. A lot of it.”

A tense silence.

“What I’m saying is that their Regenesis project… might actually work.”

She glared at him.

“Work for what? To prolong my agony?”

Hands replied without raising his tone.

“To give you back a semblance of compatibility with combat implants. Not today, not tomorrow. But with a slow, cellular, progressive approach.”

He held out a shard between two fingers.

“This isn’t a miracle. Nor a blind gamble. The program works on peripheral neurons, rebuilding pathways around segments damaged by the Relic. It’s based on a form of induced brain plasticity. In less corpo language: it teaches the brain how to breathe differently.”

V didn’t touch the shard.

“And you tell me this like I’m… what? Some kind of chosen one?”

Hands barely smiled.

“I tell you this because you’re V. Because you’re what I call a ‘grand outlier.’ A statistical anomaly who survived Arasaka, the Blackwall, and the coma.”

She looked away, uneasy.

“I don’t belong in that world.”

“None of us do. But some learn to adapt. Others die from their humility.”

He placed the shard between them.

“I understand your disgust. I share it, to some extent. But you don’t have to trust them. You can just… exploit what they’ve made. The way they exploit everyone else.”

She stayed silent for a moment, then muttered:

“If I ever say I trust them… it’ll mean I’ve been lobotomized.”

Hands gave a slight bow.

“Then I’ll make sure that day never comes. But for now…”

Hands picked up the shard between two fingers, tapped it absentmindedly against the hollow of his palm, then extended it toward V once more.

“You don’t have to take it. But at least… look. I’ve checked. I don’t hand out this kind of tool lightly.”

She took it this time, without trembling.

The shard pulsed faintly. Data came into focus.

Hands continued, narrating what she was seeing in real-time.

“After the fiasco of the Cortex Prime program, and the leak caused by an overly curious insider, Biotechnica suffered a major reputation hit. Their products were deemed… unstable. Toxic. Dangerous, even in the long run. But by pushing the right buttons, I found out Militech had already conducted similar research… managing neural load, thresholds of breakdown, cyberpsycho drift — it’s part of their military routine. What Biotechnica acquired… let’s say they stole it. Copies. Fragments. Stolen data.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“The program in question — Regenesis — works on cerebral plasticity. They identified certain persistent synaptic patterns in patients who were severely damaged. Even after removing critical chips, some areas of the brain… refuse to die.”

He gestured at the shard.

“The original goal: to slow the onset of cyberpsychosis in borderline subjects. To slow the decline, create temporary compatibility between raw implants and a degraded nervous system.”

A pause.

“But very recently, they discovered that a finer, more organic version of the protocol could allow certain specific profiles to readapt to combat implants… implants their body had completely rejected before.”

V furrowed her brow. She hated what she was hearing… but couldn’t stop listening.

Hands continued, calmly:

“You took heavy damage from the Relic’s extraction. Your nervous system endured trauma that directly impacted your sensory nodes and autonomous response centers.”

She nodded faintly, without saying a word.

“In other words, today, your brain can handle basic connections: neural port, holos, copro-links. But anything that generates intense stimuli… like combat implants… could cause an overload. And kill you.”

She frowned.

“And this program could increase tolerance?”

“Not miraculously. Not immediately. But maybe. Regenesis offers progressive rehabilitation, a redeployment circuit.”

He paused.

“Regenesis proposes a gradual reintegration. Hybrid. The implants are rebuilt from biomimetic materials that fuse with living tissue and adapt to neural flows in real time.”

He straightened slightly, hands clasped.

“That said, I’m not going to sell you a promise without critical review. I’ll personally check the components. You know my position: I don’t lose my magnets easily.”

She raised her eyes.

V slowly removed the shard from her neural port.

She stared at it for a moment, then placed it on the retractable table Hands had deployed a few minutes earlier, in the discreet luxury typical of his appearances. The small object gleamed faintly under the vehicle’s dim lighting.

Too much information for one night.

She took a deep breath, leaning the back of her head against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was all swirling in there. The words, the intentions, the innuendos, the shards, the propositions… All of it leading to what? To a tense silence in a soundproofed luxury sedan, where even the engine’s purr seemed muffled, complicit with the wait.

She turned her head slowly toward Hands. He was still watching her with the same elegant neutrality.

“You know, if you’ve got something to say… just spit it out. Seriously.”

Hands intertwined his fingers.

“I just wanted you to understand the context. Before the question.”

She sighed, exhausted. The nerves, the fatigue, the strangeness of the night… it was all starting to weigh on her.

“The famous question, huh?”

He nodded slowly.

“Would you be willing to become a fixer?”

She turned her head sharply toward him, as if she’d just been slapped.

“Excuse me?”

He remained perfectly still.

“If I were the joking type, I assure you, I’d have chosen something else.”

She straightened, shifting on the seat to face him, one leg folded against the cushion, the other on the floor, her arm resting on the headrest, head slightly tilted. A calm but defiant posture.

“You know what it takes to be a fixer? A rock-solid reputation. Years of work. A HQ. People who owe you their lives. And above all… a mastery of this city’s power games.”

She pointed a finger at him, not aggressively, just to underline her point.

“And you, you throw that at me like we’re talking about opening a taco stand in Watson.”

Hands didn’t flinch. He listened.

She continued, her tone lower.

“Since when does a fixer hand over their place to someone else? And even less to a potential rival?”

Silence settled for a moment. Then Hands resumed, with that calculated slowness that was part of his signature.

“That’s where you’re mistaken.”

He leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on the central armrest.

“What I’m offering isn’t a handover. And it’s not a favor. It’s a gamble. A measured risk. Because yes, Night City is rotten to the core. And no, you’re not ready yet, at least not by the usual standards. But that’s exactly the point.”

He paused.

“Exactly because those usual standards no longer work.”

She watched him, brows furrowed, her expression saying “Go on, spit it out.”

A smile curved the fixer’s lips, almost amused by her blunt tone. He leaned in slightly, clasping his hands as if about to ask the most serious question of the night.

“What I want, V? I want to know if you’ve ever considered becoming a fixer.”

She froze for a few seconds, making sure she had heard correctly.

“Wait… What? Are you serious right now?”

“More than ever,” he replied calmly. “I’m not talking about a favor or just a title. I’m talking about you taking a strategic role in a city that’s gone off the rails. You’ve got the nerve, the guts, the reputation. And like it or not, Heywood and Westbrook will soon need new pillars to keep them from collapsing into total chaos.”

V frowned, perplexed.

“You know, I don’t think you realize what you’re asking. Becoming a fixer isn’t about having a bit of rep and a couple of buddies who owe me a drink. It’s an underwater war: networks, HQs, dirty alliances, political games. And you, you just drop this on me like I can snap my fingers and make it happen?”

Hands tilted his head slightly, a calm smile playing on his lips.

“You’re right to be surprised. It’s almost absurd, I’ll admit that. A fixer asking a merc to become his equal, maybe even his potential rival… That’s not how things are done. Normally, you guard your territory like your own life. You don’t share. But look around you, V. Can we really afford to play solo in this city anymore?”

He let a silence hang, his gaze gleaming with rare gravity.

“The merc market is collapsing. The best are dropping like flies. Contracts are turning suicidal, between corpo wars and gang ambushes. Those who remain refuse the hottest jobs, and I can’t blame them. But without mercs, we fixers become what? Just voices talking into the void.”

He straightened a bit, each word sharp as a scalpel.

“The corpos… They’re no longer content with pulling strings. They want total control. Arasaka, Militech, Biotechnica… they’re slicing Night City up like a cake. And us, the independents, we’re reduced to crumbs. They infiltrate our networks, steal our intel, threaten us, buy us out, or erase us. There’s no clear line anymore between a street deal and a military op.”

Hands traced a finger along the table, as if sketching an invisible line.

“And the gangs… nobody keeps them in check anymore. They hit anything that moves, even fixers. They loot, destroy, turn our safehouses into slaughterhouses. There’s no more negotiating with them, just surviving their whims.”

His tone dropped lower, almost confessional.

“And then, there’s betrayal. Desperate mercs will sell you out for a handful of eddies. Netrunners sell your data to the highest bidder. Your own partners stab you in the back just to save their own skin. So what? We close our eyes and pretend nothing’s happening?”

V stared at him, arms crossed, listening despite herself.

“Even our information networks are dying, V. Back then, a good fixer was a spy, a strategist. Today, the corps erase everything. Reliable intel costs a fortune, and we’re all fighting over the same crumbs. Padre, Wakako, me… we’re stepping on each other’s toes. It’s an underground war, but it’s always the same tune: the one who stays alone gets crushed.”

Hands exhaled softly, as if weighing the gravity of his own words.

“Civilians are fleeing. Districts are emptying. Less population, fewer deals, less economy. Soon, only the corps and gangs will be left fighting over a ghost city. Night City is becoming a permanent warzone. Even Padre and Wakako are starting to lose their footholds. If nothing changes, we all vanish. Fixers, mercs, independents. The only law left will be the corps’ law.”

A heavy silence filled the space. V looked away, her jaw tight.

“Okay…” she finally said. “Your speech is pretty, I’ll give you that. But what kind of ‘balance’ are you talking about? Because as far as I know, there’s never been one. The corps have always been screwing things up. They’re the ones creating gangs, feeding the misery, turning this city into hell. So your plan to ‘restore balance,’ sorry… but it sounds hollow.”

Hands stared at her, an amused glint in his eyes.

“I never said it was a just balance. Or a moral one. What I call ‘balance,’ V, is simply a state where we can still breathe. Where fixers can still choose their battles, where mercs don’t die before they’ve even collected half their pay. I’m talking about chaos… that can be managed.”

V arched a brow.

“Manageable, huh? And you want me to be your pawn in this pretty picture?”

Hands merely smiled, tilting his head as if weighing his next words carefully.

“Not a pawn. An ally. Maybe more, if you accept it.”

V raised an eyebrow, a humorless laugh escaping her throat.

“An ally, huh… Do you even realize how twisted that sounds?”

She straightened in the seat, her right foot tapping lightly against the floor mat — a sharp, restless rhythm. Her right hand gripped her knee, grounding her.

“I know what I am, Hands. A legend, sure… but a legend exposed. If tomorrow, all of Night City learns I don’t have my combat implants anymore, how long do you think I’ll last before every nutjob tries to put a bullet in me just to make a name for themselves?”

She inhaled, her gaze drifting to the neon lights flashing in the distance.

“And don’t start talking Biotechnica with me. I don’t trust those bastards one bit. Accepting their program is like signing a pact with the devil, even if it’s wrapped up as a miracle. And you want me to reopen the Atlantis… Seriously? The Atlantis was a nest for netrunners, mercs, dirty deals and murders. Not some club where you sip drinks and talk business. You know as well as I do what that name stands for.”

Hands kept watching her, saying nothing, his dark eyes glowing faintly with amusement. He liked it when she spoke like this: sharp, clear, no sugarcoating.

V exhaled, her gaze dropping briefly to her tense fingers.

“And let’s be real. I might be a legend, but legends get dethroned fast. One mistake, one ambush, and I’m just another story told over drinks at some dive bar.”

Hands straightened slightly, his hands clasped with his usual theatrical elegance.

“You want me to be blunt? You do want the Atlantis.”

V glared at him.

“Cut the crap. What I want or don’t want is my business. I just got… influenced by someone else’s memories of that damned club. Johnny and his ghosts. Nothing more.”

Hands let silence stretch for a beat before leaning closer, his elbow resting on the armrest, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

“Maybe. But I know one thing: you have that look when you pass that building. The look of someone who wants to see it alive again. And I can help you. You won’t even have to lift a finger for security. I’ll send the best mercs in my book, handpicked bodyguards built for this.”

He straightened, his voice dropping a tone, almost conspiratorial.

“Tell me, V… have you ever seen Rogue fight with combat implants?”

She fell silent, caught off guard. Then an ironic smile tugged at her lips.

“No. Honestly… never. When I had to dig into her past to figure out how Johnny died, I saw she just relied on a gun and a razor-sharp mind. No fancy chrome needed to earn respect.”

Hands made a slow gesture, as if sealing the point.

“Exactly. A fixer is not a merc. A fixer orchestrates. Delegates. And wins. You already have everything it takes, V. The reputation, the contacts, the respect. You’ve got the frame for it.”

V stared at him, her foot still tapping the floor. The words were sinking in, slowly. She had never looked at it from that angle before.

And what if, deep down, being a fixer… was exactly what she needed to become, now that she wasn’t built for the streets anymore?

V studied Hands in silence, as if waiting for one more word from him. But he seemed to end the conversation with just a slight nod and a polite smile.

“We’ve talked enough for tonight. What I’ve proposed… you can think about it. But the choice is yours, V.”

She looked up, ready to fire back, but stopped cold.

The car had slowed down, and when she raised her head, she saw the familiar wide lanes, the modern, green-lined façade.

Home. Already.

“Shit…” she thought.

Two hours. Two fucking hours of conversation about remaking the world, the fixers, the corps, the chaos of Night City… She hadn’t even seen it coming.

Hands straightened, his silhouette even sharper in the dim light of the cabin. He gave her one last glance before opening his door.

The crisp click of the handle cut through her thoughts like a blade.

V immediately reached for her own door… locked.

She pulled it again, harder. Still locked.

A sigh escaped her, half exasperated, half amused.

Hands slowly walked around the vehicle. The steady sound of his footsteps echoed against the stones of the private path, calm and almost ceremonial. He stopped in front of V’s door and, without a word, opened it for her.

She stared at him for a second, lips pressed, caught between an awkward thank-you and a “seriously?”

In the end, she simply stepped out. The night air brushed her face, mixed with the faint scent of the trees planted around the garden.

The walk to the entrance was silent.

The white stone path snaked between shrubs and ground lights. Hands’ steps made no sound, while hers clicked lightly on the tiles.

She couldn’t keep her mind from drifting back to the conversation. The fixers. Their survival. The absurd idea of uniting their forces.

“And me, in the middle of all that… the perfect cover, huh?”

She inhaled slowly, hands slipping into her pockets. She hadn’t decided yet if she found it flattering or dangerous. Probably both.

Hands finally broke the silence.

“I’ve always wanted to see this place up close. When I saw a few pictures, I thought President Myers really went all out for you.”

V turned her head toward him, half suspicious, half surprised.

“Pictures… seriously? You have pictures of my place?”

He smiled calmly.

“Not the way you imagine. Just professional curiosity. And I must say…” He made a brief gesture toward the entrance, ”…it’s a fine place for a living legend.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly. Compliments like that, coming from him, always sounded like a mix between a trap and a truth too well-crafted.

Their pace slowed, the gravel crunching softly under their shoes. Hands moved with a measured, almost solemn stride, his hands clasped behind his back, while V rummaged in her jacket pockets for her keys. The air was cool, and a breeze rustled the branches in the garden.

“You already hold all the cards, V. You could be something far bigger than you think. I’m not talking about hope, or glory… but clarity.”

His voice was low, measured, almost gentle.

“I’ll send all the details to your comlink. You can read and think it over. There’s no rush… but believe me, it’s worth considering.”

She glanced up at him briefly, still patting her pockets. She hesitated to respond, but settled for a nod — a quiet acknowledgment. She didn’t know what to think yet, but she understood at least that he saw in her something more than a simple merc.

A gloved hand gently tapped her shoulder. The gesture was calculated, neither too familiar nor too distant.

“I’m counting on you, V.”

The tone was almost tender, which caught her off guard.

“You’re now one of my most valuable allies.”

She watched him walk back to his car, tall and elegant, until he vanished around the corner of the lane. She stood there for a moment, motionless, suspended in the silence. Then she sighed, fished out her keys, and turned toward the door.

She was about to slide the key into the lock… and froze.

A tiny detail made her frown: the door wasn’t completely closed. A faint mark on the wood showed it had been pushed with force.

Her heart sped up. She knew those marks too well.

Someone had been inside.

V stepped back half a pace, her eyes scanning the garden. Nothing suspicious. Her hand slid firmly and slowly toward the grip of her gun, drawing it without a sound. The key remained stuck between her fingers, useless.

She gently pushed the door open with her fingertips.

No creak. No noise. Inside, everything looked in place. And yet…

In the hallway, the storage boxes she’d left earlier were still lined up. But the atmosphere had changed. A cold shiver ran down her spine: someone experienced had bypassed her security.

She advanced in careful steps, every movement measured. Her boots barely touched the floor, her breath short, her gaze locked on every shadowed corner. She didn’t close the door behind her, leaving an escape route if things went south.

Her finger hovered lightly on the trigger. She moved closer to the hallway, her body coiled like a blade.

Quick note about Marla!

She’s one of my OCs — kind of like a parental figure/tutor for my V. I completely forgot I had mentioned her in this fanfic since it’s based on an older draft I reused, so… oops! 😅

Don’t overthink it — just consider her as someone who cared for V like family. I’ll be developing her character more in one of my other fanfics called AlterCode.

[astralissky]

Last night I did a test on alight Motion... it pays off

[astralissky]

I love visualizing characters—

especially the ones who still feel mysterious even after you’ve seen their face. (Yes, Mr. Hands, I am talking about you!)

To make my fanfics believable and true to the characters, I need to fully visualize them — their personality, voice, speech patterns, even how they enter a room. And some… well, let’s just say they love talking, hinting, and letting you figure out their real motives. (Looking at you, Mr. Hands 💀)

So that already explains the time I’m taking to release the next part, but also, I’ve started offering alternate choices like in the Telltale games — basically, your choices affect the story.

And by doing that, I’m not only training for my upcoming alternative fanfics, but also giving a major boost and total immersion for readers.

This was just a silly post to share some news! See you soon for #ANewProjectV

[astralissky]

Hey! I love your recent work of the yandere Aiden fic you wrote, and I just gotta say keep it up! I’m fascinated over how well and how far you can stretch the characters’ personality under harsh conditions and would love to see more. I gotta say, I’m not used to reading these types of genres but I think I’m willing to make an exception. Awesome job as always

Heyyy thank you SO much for your kind message!! It really means a lot to me 🥹💕

The fic you’re talking about is currently called Days (just a placeholder name though — I’m keeping the real title secret for now, since it gives away a big meaning that will make sense at the very end of the story 👀)

I’ve honestly put everything into this one — especially when it comes to the characters’ personalities, and trying to stay true to their logic while pushing them into darker, more obsessive/possessive dynamics. I call it “yandere” because it fits, but it’s more about emotional obsession and toxic love stories.

I’m super glad you noticed how I build emotional tension and conditions around each character. That’s something I focus a lot on, and you’ll see that a lot more in my future fics too!

Characters like Aiden, Jesse, Petra, and Lukas will all go through a lot — emotionally, psychologically — and I promise you won’t be disappointed

Also, yes!! I remember you asked about The Coffee of the Beginning, the interactive fanfic. It’s definitely still happening — I just wanted to improve my writing skills a bit before diving fully into it. I’ve already written 10 different path options (not full endings yet, just early branches), so it’s pretty far along, just not ready for release yet.

Right now I’m juggling three big projects:

1. Days (the one you read),

2. Silver V (a Cyberpunk fanfic),

3. And The Coffee of the Beginning (the interactive story).

If you want, I can even share a sneak peek or a screenshot of the choices I’ve already written 👀 Just to show how deep I’m into it haha.

But really — thank you again for taking the time to write to me. Messages like yours give me so much motivation and happiness. I’m doing my best to bring more stories to life soon, even if it takes a bit of time 💗💗💗

Ps : It's normal that it's in French! As I am! xD

[astralissky]

LOWKEY (yes it's me again the weirdo hi!!) I've been spamming your comment section too much 😭😭 at this point I feel like I'm legit in your walls so, sorry if you're like 🧍🧍,,,

But I saw your AN on your repost and I just wanted to let you know that your works are being seen, and appreciated, and other positive descriptors 🫶🫶 I'm just a newcomer and idrk what MCSM is but I'm here!!! Reading your fics when I'm supposed to doing my labs!!

OMG no no no no no no no NO you are not bothering me at all!! 😭💖 On the contrary, you’re literally giving me the strength to keep writing these fics. Like—you are my source of energy right now. You’re the one making me feel seen and giving me the courage to go on with my current projects. 🫂✨

If you feel like you’re in my walls, then girl, I’d offer you a drink and a cozy blanket, no joke 💀 You are so welcome here.

Also thank you SO much for reading my Author’s Notes—just knowing that someone actually reads them makes me feel so appreciated. I often stay up late (oops), skipping sleep just to bring some logic, love, and soul to my fics. It’s such a passion for me, and I’m honestly beyond grateful that it reaches someone like you 🥹💕

And don’t worry if you don’t know much about Minecraft Story Mode (MCSM)!! It’s completely fine, I swear! You actually just gave me the idea to write a post explaining the canon/storyline for newcomers like you—so thank you for the inspiration!

Sadly, Telltale shut down and MCSM isn’t available anymore for download or purchase 😢 so a lot of people can’t discover it on their own. But! If you want to get into it, I’ve uploaded the episodes on my YouTube channel (VinCéleste) in 4K ✨ (yes I’m flexing a little hehe). I even included some of the alternate choices too, just for fun.

BUT even if you don’t watch it, you absolutely don’t need to be an expert to enjoy my fanfics. I try to make sure anyone can dive in, even without knowing all the lore. I just love sharing my vision, characters, and universe—and it means the world to know that it connects with someone 🥲💗

So thank you. Truly. You’re incredibly sweet and supportive and I don’t know if someone from above sent you to me but… my heart is melting 😭💘

(Also, fun fact! My Jesse is based on the female player skin 3 — the blue one! I was one of the only people doing a no-commentary let’s play with that skin lol.)

[astralissky]

Timeline universe n.??????1

Day 2 - The plan (part - 2)

Reality

Yandere Lukas x Jesse (Death lol) x Yandere Petra

Warning: explicit violence, graphic death, blood, mutilation, grief, derealization, possession, obsession, toxic love, yandere behavior, trauma, dissociation, psychotic episode, hallucination, major character death, altered reality.

He hadn’t really slept. Just… let his body lie there. Eyes open in the dark. Breath muffled in a pillow that was way too firm. The sheets still covered him, but he couldn’t feel their warmth. Or their weight. Another night without dreams. Another night without Jesse.

Lukas had stayed there. Eyes empty. Fingers tightly wrapped around a thin black thread. A braid. Small, broken. Worn down by time. One of the first. One she’d lost without even noticing, back at Endercon. He remembered. He’d picked it up without knowing why.

And then he did it again. One, then another. After every fight, every mission, every escape. Not out of obsession. Out of need. The need to hold on to something. A sign. A memory.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t anymore.

“Lukas?”

The voice was muffled, distant. Coming from outside. Through the window.

“Hey, Lukas! You awake?”

He knew that tone. That mix of kindness and unwavering optimism. Milo. He was probably finishing a wall somewhere, or laying planks on a roof. Always moving, always helping, always organizing. Milo never stopped.

Lukas didn’t move.

His fingers brushed slowly over the braid. He couldn’t let go. As if that little black thread was holding together the pieces of himself that were about to break apart.

“I swear, if you’re still asleep, I’m coming in there to drag you out myself!” Milo called out, mock-annoyed.

A quiet sigh. Lukas closed his eyes for a second. He knew he had to get up. He’d known it for hours. But he just… couldn’t. He’d given everything not to fall apart. He had rebuilt walls, planted beams, nailed rooftops. But none of it, none of it filled the void she had left.

And yet.

A voice.

A window.

A friend.

Maybe that was enough for today.

So, slowly, he sat up. Hair a mess. Eyes shadowed. He slid the braid into a wooden box on the nightstand — there were more. Too many. He got up, dragged himself to the window, and unlatched it.

The light made him squint. Down below, Milo raised a hand.

“There he is! The silent hero lives.”

A smile a little too wide. A joke a little too light. But it was just enough to make Lukas sigh, lower his eyes, and give a vague wave back.

He hadn’t slept. He wasn’t okay.

But he could still say “hi.”

And sometimes, that was already a lot.

Lukas hadn’t even changed.

The orange shirt, wrinkled from the night, still clung to his skin. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Maybe the day before’s. He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t had the strength. Or the instinct. What was the point.

He stood at the window. Elbows resting on the frame. Eyes on Milo.

“Yeah… hey Milo. How you doing?”

Milo looked up at him with a half-smile.

“I’m alright… but you, I’m not so sure.”

Lukas raised his eyebrows slightly, like saying What?, without replying.

So Milo lifted a finger and pointed gently.

“Look at your eyes. Have you seen your face?”

Lukas dropped his gaze, raised a hand to his face, rubbed his eyelids wearily. They were dry. Puffy. Red. He knew. He didn’t need a mirror.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing. I just… haven’t slept much these last few nights.”

Not a lie. Just the essential truth.

Milo didn’t answer right away. His smile had faded, like he was hesitating to speak. He always had that strange mix of cheer and clarity — that kind of light trying to shine despite everything. But now, his eyes spoke before he did.

He understood.

But instead of pushing, he let his arms fall, then took a breath.

“Listen… we’re making good progress. I mean… we’re trying. We’re laying down the basics, you know? Birch beams, a few acacia blocks, even a spruce plank roof for the common room. But… let’s just say half the people here can barely line up a crafting table. And Isa’s too busy locking down the perimeter.”

He shrugged, almost apologetically.

“So yeah. I need you. To help with the foundation, and especially to teach the others. If we want everyone to have a roof by the end of the week, we’ve gotta move. And… I think it would help them too. All of them.”

Lukas listened, saying nothing.

He knew.

He saw the cloths stretched between trees, the patched-up tents, the people sleeping right on the ground — too tired to complain.

The world wasn’t spinning without them.

And there weren’t enough of them left.

“Alright.” he said simply.

“No problem. Just give me two minutes to put something away. Wait out front.”

Milo gave him a real smile this time.

Nothing big — but enough.

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

And he walked off down the path, his boots scuffing against the stone.

Lukas gently shut the window.

The world went quiet again.

He stayed there a second, unmoving.

Then, without a word, he turned, crossed the room, and walked to the back of the house.

A little wash corner, cobbled together with an old redstone circuit — a trick he’d refined with Olivia, once. But Jesse had been the real inspiration, deep down. Almost everything he’d learned, he’d done it for her.

Bitter irony: she was gone now.

He splashed some water on his face.

Not to wake up. Just to wash away the night. The exhaustion. The memories clinging to his skin. He wet his hair a bit too, scrubbed through it roughly — the way Jesse sometimes did when they were in a rush.

He straightened up, grabbed his jacket, pulled on his boots, looped his explorer goggles around his neck. He wasn’t hungry, but tossed two cookies into his inventory. He’d made them the day before. He didn’t even remember why.

Crossing the living room, his eyes flicked toward Ivor.

The man was hunched over a map he seemed to have drawn overnight.

Most likely, he’d been out during the night — quietly — while everyone else slept or pretended to. He was searching. For clues. For answers. For the key.

They knew where the portal was.

Jesse had found it, before… before everything.

She never got the chance to tell the others. Lukas had seen it. He’d had to be the one to speak.

But now that she was gone, they only had half the answer. The portal, without the key, was just a locked door. And Olivia and Axel…

…were still on the other side.

He walked slowly down the steps of the house.

Headed toward Petra’s shelter.

He didn’t know why he was going.

Just that he had to.

She was there, curled up under a blanket, sitting on a makeshift mattress in the middle of her suspended weapons.

A real improvised armory — one that might’ve been impressive if it hadn’t turned into a tomb of silence. Lukas could only see her back. She wasn’t moving. He knew she wasn’t asleep. Petra always snored a little when she slept — and right now, he heard nothing.

He stepped forward, quietly.

Approached without a sound. Sat down at the edge of the bed, next to her. Right there. Close enough so she’d feel him. Not close enough to force her to speak.

He looked at the walls. The weapons. Petra’s shadow. And he felt empty.

He thought about what she had lived through with Jesse. About everything he had never really known. He’d believed Aiden at first. The rumors, the lies — everything that had pushed him away from her before he even realized.

He hated himself for it. Bitterly. Not just for believing those stories, but for not having more time with her. For not knowing better.

But at the same time… Part of him felt like maybe that was a blessing in disguise. He looked at Petra — curled up, silent — and he understood. She had known Jesse. Truly.

And now, she carried that weight.

Lukas could feel it — she was slipping. He didn’t want to believe she’d do something reckless. But he knew this silence. This kind of silence that swallows everything. Even your breath.

He listened.

And the more he listened, the more he wondered: Is she still breathing?

Then she moved. Just a shift. Barely there. But enough.

He let out a breath of his own. Relieved. A little.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stayed.

With her.

Because sometimes, that’s all you can do.

Petra still wasn’t moving. Lukas could only see her back, the blanket pulled up over her shoulders. She was curled up like she’d folded into a storm that nothing could reach.

He was about to speak. But what was the point in asking if she was okay? They both knew. Neither of them was.

His gaze drifted, not really looking — just… landing.

And then he saw it.

The braid.

It wasn’t the black braid Jesse had worn so often, not the one she had proudly kept these past few months. This one was different. Shorter. A warm golden brown, almost glowing under the soft morning light.

It came from before. Way before. Maybe from a time Lukas had never even known. Before the Witherstorms, before the ruins, before the war. A different Jesse — younger, brighter, still untouched by everything.

Petra held that braid the way someone clutches a memory to their chest. Like a child holding onto a worn-out toy. Like if she let go of that thread, she’d be letting go of Jesse for good.

And suddenly, Lukas felt the full weight of what they had lost.

He lowered his voice.

Just enough for Petra to hear.

Just soft enough not to break the moment.

“I was going to ask if you’re okay.”

A brief silence.

“But what’s the point. You and I both know you’re not.”

He took a quiet breath.

“I just wanted you to know I’m here. That I’m staying here. Even if I’m not Jesse… and even if Ivor isn’t exactly the hugging type either. We’re here.”

He straightened a little, still seated.

Looking ahead, as if he too was talking to a ghost.

“I don’t really have the words for all this. What we saw. What we lived. What we felt. And I’m sure you don’t either.”

He exhaled slowly.

“But… I know what Jesse would’ve wanted.”

A small pause.

“She would’ve wanted us to keep going. To fight. To find a way home. To tell Axel and Olivia the truth. To not let Aiden reshape the world in his image.”

He glanced briefly toward Petra. She still didn’t move. But he went on — because someone had to say it, even if it was to the silence.

“I don’t know what she would’ve told you.”

A faint, sad smile.

“That’s the thing with Jesse. She never said what we expected. She’d come out with something totally… weird, and serious, and funny all at once — and it worked. That’s the crazy part. She always found a way to be heard.”

He stood slowly, quietly. Then, just before leaving, he leaned toward her — not touching her.

“I don’t think she would’ve left you like this. I think she would’ve told you to cry, to rest, to scream if you needed to… But not to disappear. Not you.”

A whisper.

“She would’ve told you to stay. To exist.”

He stepped back, carefully, leaving Petra with her thoughts.

And just before the exit:

“I’m going to help Milo. He asked for a hand.”

One last pause.

“Rest if you can, Petra. Take all the time you need. But… don’t fade away. Please.”

He closed the door behind him, gently. No sound.

The hallway air felt colder, emptier.

And yet — inside him — something felt lighter.

As if just being there, sitting, on the other side of the grief… had been enough to keep him standing a little longer.

He walked down the stairs slowly, stepped around the damaged beams, and made his way back to his room. The moment he entered, his eyes went straight to the small wooden chest sitting on the bedside table.

He already knew what he would find.

He lifted the lid.

Inside, neatly wrapped in a piece of linen cloth, was the strand. Black. Truly black. The kind of black that caught the light — like the shadow of a star. Every shimmer gave off a subtle blue hue, almost metallic.

He held it in his hands, gently.

His fingers trembled slightly. Not from fatigue. More from what it meant. From what he felt. It was the strand he had kept in secret. For a long time. Since that night when he had realized it was already too late.

And he understood — without needing to say it aloud — that holding it had brought him peace.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Wrapped it softly around his wrist. Tied a loose knot. Not to bind it. Just to keep it close. It wasn’t a totem. It wasn’t a trophy. Just… proof that Jesse had existed. For him, too.

He sighed deeply, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

Then his gaze shifted toward the small bag on the floor. And one thought pushed its way in.

Had Petra eaten?

He didn’t know.

And he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to force words out of her. He just wanted to do something.

So, without thinking too long, he stood up, leaned down toward the supply chest, and pulled out a clean cloth. He placed a few cookies inside — the ones he had managed to save from the days before. The ones Jesse had liked. The ones she used to tease him about for loving too much.

He walked back upstairs, quietly.

Petra’s door was slightly ajar. He approached.

She was standing. Facing her workbench. The one where she always sharpened her weapons.

She wasn’t doing anything dangerous. She wasn’t shaking. She still wasn’t speaking. But she was standing.

He smiled, despite himself.

A small smile. Quiet. Not the kind that erases pain. The kind that acknowledges it.

He stepped inside without a sound, just far enough to reach the edge of the room, and placed the cloth with the cookies on the nightstand, right next to the unmade bed.

Petra didn’t move. But she must have heard him. He didn’t say a word.

He stepped back in silence and closed the door just as softly as before.

The wood creaked softly under his steps. Lukas closed the door behind him, letting the warmth inside the house fade into silence.

Outside, the air was a little cooler, but not unpleasant. He took a deep breath, though it did nothing to ease him.

Sitting on one of the small staircases he had built the night before — in a total inability to stay still, between two sleepless stretches — Milo looked up at him.

His gaze, always gentle, carried something a little more faded today, but he still tried a smile.

“Ah, good morning, my friend!” he called, with that clumsy warmth he always kept, even in the worst moments.

Lukas stepped forward, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

He hesitated for a second, then replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes:

“I… stayed up too late. You know how it is, sometimes.”

Milo nodded without replying.

He understood. He had seen the dark circles. He had guessed the sleepless nights.

He didn’t press. Just stood up, brushing off his slightly wrinkled clothes.

His shirt hung a little loose beneath his suspenders, as always. That disheveled look clung to him — familiar now. Reassuring, even.

The two boys began to walk toward the next house they needed to build.

There was still so much to do.

Far too much for a group this small.

But Milo, like Lukas, knew doing nothing would break them faster.

Milo glanced at Lukas from time to time.

There was something in his eyes, in the way he carried himself — that kind of emptiness no words could fill.

Lukas, for his part, occasionally clutched the wrist where, wrapped like a talisman, rested a black braid. Jesse’s braid.

He didn’t show it, but Milo had seen.

He had recognized it.

And said nothing.

They walked. And between each step, thoughts tangled and crossed.

Jesse… Lukas thought. I wish I’d known you better. Not just in the shouting, the blood, the impossible missions. I wish I’d known you in the silence. In the real moments.

Milo, meanwhile, thought about the others who had seen it happen.

Isa, frozen.

Ivor, trembling.

Petra, shattered.

And especially Lukas — this Lukas who now walked without complaining, but whose shadow always seemed one step behind him, clinging like a curse.

He knew Lukas needed him.

Not just for placing blocks or giving building advice —

But to keep something standing.

Something alive.

Something steady.

And yet, even he hadn’t seen everything.

He hadn’t seen Aiden’s expression.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to know.

Lukas tightened his grip around his wrist.

“Alright,” said Milo, with a lighter voice, “I think we’ve got half a town to finish. And with my wobbly walls, we’re not exactly gonna impress Isa.”

A small laugh escaped him — a real one.

Lukas looked up and gave a quiet nod.

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

Lukas had walked up to the next structure they were planning to build — a two-level house meant to be shared between two families. A kind of compromise, for now. Until they could rebuild better, bigger. The ground had already been flattened the day before, the foundations roughly marked out with raw stone blocks, and chests sat nearby, waiting for the first planks.

He set the crafting table near what would become the south wall and sighed.

“This is it,” he muttered — more to himself than to Milo.

The latter, already busy unloading the chests, handed him oak blocks without saying a word. He knew how things worked now: you didn’t ask too many questions at the start. You built. You cleared your head. And the words came later, on their own.

Lukas placed the first corner block, then the second, then the next. The walls began to take shape — a simple, solid rectangle. There was nothing fancy about their builds — just practical. Functional. Enough to keep out the cold, the wind… or Aiden.

Behind every façade, a staircase had been planned leading to a small basement. Not deep — just enough to serve as shelter in case of attack. The idea had come from Milo, but Lukas had agreed without hesitation. After what they’d seen, neither of them wanted to go through it again.

The sun was slowly climbing the sky, sliding above the distant ruins of Sky City. Oak blocks stacked up, planks clicked into place, windows emerged in the form of melted glass.

One day, they’d build better. One day, they’d add quartz. Maybe even tinted glass… But for now, it had to be fast. And sturdy.

“Place a stair there — yeah, perfect,” said Lukas, focused.

Milo handed him a water bucket and a slab for the shared well.

“We’ll need a water source here. I’ll go grab more stone blocks.”

Lukas nodded quietly. His mind was elsewhere.

The gestures flowed on their own. After placing, breaking, and replacing blocks so many times, his hands knew the rhythm better than his voice.

As the hours passed, a dozen houses had been raised. Simple houses. Square. Sometimes a bit uneven. But solid. Some families had already begun moving in — placing beds, torches, even a few flowers. Others were still waiting — either for the roof to be done, or for the fear to pass.

Some whispered about “him.” Him, without a name. Others dared say Aiden, like a forbidden curse. Lukas no longer feared the name. He had seen it too many times in dreams, heard it too many times screamed by Jesse.

These people needed to feel safe.

Someone had to stay standing while the others fell apart.

And as he finished the roof of a new house, hammering down the last stone brick, he felt Milo climbing up behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to guess the smile. It was only when he felt Milo’s gaze linger on his wrist that he stopped.

The black braid was clearly visible, wrapped neatly around his wrist like a bracelet. Jesse’s thread.

Milo didn’t say anything. But his silence held understanding.

A light breeze rustled the leaves at the tops of the newly replanted trees. The freshly placed oak blocks still smelled like cut wood. Farther away, children giggled softly, running around a pig who seemed just as lost as they were in this new world. Sheep grazed in the tall grass, hooves pressing into the soft brown earth. A butterfly passed in front of Lukas’s eyes, brushing his arm before drifting upward again.

A living world. Truly alive.

Lukas, his feet still resting on the last block of the roof, watched everything in silence. He couldn’t see much beyond the ashes.

Next to him, Milo had sat down. He was fidgeting with one of his overall straps, eyes downcast. He wasn’t as cheerful as usual, but his face still held that quiet warmth only a few people could truly carry. And in that warmth, he finally found the courage to speak:

“You know… I got up a few times last night to check the perimeter. Just to make sure everything was okay.”

His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the wind. Lukas didn’t answer, his eyes lost on some unfocused point on the horizon.

“And I saw Petra,” Milo added. “She wasn’t sleeping either. She had a lock of hair around her wrist. A braid.”

He paused — just long enough for Lukas to feel the weight behind what was coming.

“And now you do too.”

He turned his head toward Lukas. The brunette still didn’t move.

“I can’t even imagine if Ivor’s wearing one too,” Milo murmured, with a hesitant smile.

Then he rubbed the back of his neck, mustering a bit more courage.

“Jesse… she must’ve been really something. I mean… for you all to…”

He struggled with his words.

“Tell me. Tell me what she was like. Your story.”

Lukas blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Not now. Not here, between wooden beams and the sound of children playing in the distance.

A warm breeze lifted a few strands of his blond hair. And suddenly, the world felt strangely still. The sounds were still there — hooves in the dirt, hammers hitting wood, voices shouting far off — but it all felt muffled. Like the question had opened a door Lukas wasn’t ready to walk through.

He lowered his head slightly, hands still resting on his knees.

A black braid wrapped around his wrist. His link. His last connection.

It took him a long time to answer. A very long time.

Lukas gave a bitter smile.

“It’s funny… ‘cause deep down, I think I’d been watching her for a long time. Way before we ever talked. Way before the Witherstorm.”

His eyes drifted, like he was falling back into a memory he’d visited often.

“Jesse… she was always hanging out with the same people: Olivia, Axel… sometimes Petra, but that was more rare in the beginning. She had this energy. Not subtle at all. She talked loud, laughed louder, always tinkering with something like she had to fill the space so she wouldn’t disappear.”

His voice dropped lower, almost like he was just talking to himself now.

“And me? I was listening to whatever Aiden had to say about her. He said she was selfish, egocentric, that she kept everything to herself, that she manipulated people. And he always said it with that voice… you know? That calm, smug voice. Like he’d seen it all, figured it all out.”

A brief silence. Lukas closed his eyes for a moment.

“And I listened. I never checked for myself. I chose to believe Aiden — ‘cause it was easier. ‘Cause I was scared. Scared to be wrong. Scared that everything I thought was true might just fall apart.”

He winced slightly.

“She always seemed too… bright. Too cheerful. Too… strong. I couldn’t believe someone could be like that all the time. I thought it was fake. A mask. Something shady.”

He took a deep breath.

“I saw her from a distance, at Endercon. She was bouncing from one booth to another, tossing ideas at Axel, Olivia laughing, Jesse improvising. Always with that overflowing energy, that fire.”

A pause again. Lukas went on, more softly.

“And I’ll admit that energy… I couldn’t stand it. Because it scared me. Because it made me wrong — without her even saying a word to me.”

He turned slightly toward Milo.

“The worst part is… Jesse was never truly alone. Even when everyone treated her like a pariah, she had her two friends. And that was enough for her.”

His gaze hardened just a little.

“But that pissed Aiden off. He hated that she could make it without him. That she could exist without him. That she was fine without trying to please anyone.”

He clenched his fists.

“And it took me a long time to figure it out.”

A sigh escaped him — heavy, full of weight.

“And then came Petra.”

His tone shifted. Deeper. Almost shaken.

“Petra’s not the kind of girl you approach easily. She talks little, judges fast, doesn’t like many people. And that day… I saw her. I saw her walk up to Jesse. And not with her usual coldness. No. She was smiling. She was… gentle.”

He froze for a moment.

“She said ‘Jesse and the guys.’ Not ‘the guys.’ She put Jesse first.”

He swallowed.

“And that’s when I knew. I knew Jesse wasn’t what Aiden said she was. Because Petra hates Aiden. And Petra hates anything fake.”

His eyes drifted into nothingness, haunted.

He could still hear the words. The claims. The accusations. The judgment.

“Jesse is selfish. She only thinks of herself.”

He blinked. How had he believed that? How had he bought into such nonsense without questioning it? Jesse, selfish? The girl who spent every day with the same two friends, always making them laugh, always lifting them up, risking her life for them? The girl who… had a pig for a companion. Not a wolf. Not a golem. Not a horse. A pig. An animal that took patience, and gentleness, and a heart big enough to protect something so defenseless.

“If she was selfish… she wouldn’t have had Reuben.”

That thought cut through his mind. Sharp. Clear.

“And she destroys everything in her path,” Aiden had said. Another lie that came back to him. Hollow. Empty. Absurd.

If there had been even a sliver of truth in that sentence, Petra would’ve never gotten close to her. Petra didn’t get fooled. Petra didn’t let people in. If Jesse had been toxic, Petra would’ve seen it from the first word, the first glance. She would’ve kept her at a distance. More than that — she would’ve challenged her. Directly. Harshly. No mercy.

But that’s not what happened.

No.

What he saw that day was Petra… turning to Jesse. And smiling.

A rare smile. One of those that never came out. A smile unlike anything Petra ever offered the rest of the world.

And Jesse, she smiled back with just as much light. As if the two of them spoke a different language. As if they understood each other before ever exchanging a word.

He had never seen anything like it.

And deep down… he felt a pang. He didn’t know what it was at the time. But now, he could name it.

Jealousy.

He had wanted to be looked at the way Petra looked at Jesse. He had wanted to see that smile. Just once. But Jesse had never looked at him the way she looked at Petra. She never had that spark when she saw him.

And that was fair.

Why was he even surprised, really? He had believed the lies. He had turned his back. He hadn’t tried.

But Petra hadn’t stopped at rumors. She saw Jesse. She judged with her own eyes. She reached out.

Lukas… had stayed behind Aiden.

He felt stupid. Guilty. He thought of all those moments Jesse walked past him. She laughed. She spoke loud. She lived. And he… he watched her. Never daring to break the wall.

She was “too much,” they said. Took too much space. Smiled too wide. Wasn’t like the others.

And that’s exactly why she was special.

He knew that now.

But back then, everything was blurry. Rumors clouded everything. And Petra… Petra had seen clearly long before he did.

Lukas finally snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze still latched onto something no one else could see.

“You know, Milo… after everything I heard about her, about Jesse…”

He let out a sigh, straightening a little.

“It was all so wrong. So… completely off. I think I spent too much time listening to Aiden. He kept saying she was selfish, unpredictable, even dangerous. And I believed him. That’s the worst part.”

He gave a bitter laugh.

“And yet… she’s the one who reached out to me. She’s the one who came to talk to me, during the party.”

He paused. His eyes softened.

“I was sitting there, on the edge of the wall, not far from the entrance. And I told myself, if she walked by, maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I’d get a chance. A chance to… matter, to her.”

He chuckled quietly, half-mocking himself.

“I was happy just catching a glimpse of her. Ridiculous, right? She should’ve been the one avoiding me, not the other way around. But she came over. Straight to me. Like I wasn’t the guy who’d spread half the garbage rumors on the planet. Like I was… just me.”

He leaned forward a bit, searching for the right words.

“And then when we had to get into the building, we needed slimeballs to make a block and climb up. I had one. Just one. And I made sure she saw it. Like, real obvious, you know? Not subtle at all. I wanted her to ask me for help.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a little embarrassed.

“I forced fate. Yeah. I’ll admit it.”

Silence again. A butterfly passed by, quiet and light.

“After that… there was the basement. Ivor. The golem. I got stuck in a chest like a total idiot, couldn’t even breathe. And Jesse’s the one who came down to get me out. She could’ve asked Gabriel. Could’ve left me. But no. She came down.”

He locked eyes with Milo.

“You get it?” Lukas said, voice low, barely more than a breath. “I judged her. And still… she’s the one who saved me. Without asking anything in return.”

A brief silence settled in.

Milo looked at him for a long moment. Then, with the clumsy gentleness of someone afraid to burst a fragile bubble, he dared:

“So… what happened after that?”

He hadn’t expected so much. He just wanted to hear about her, to understand. But Lukas had unraveled the whole thread, as if every word spoken opened a locked door. As if Jesse, simply by being mentioned, brought a piece of him back to life.

“You… you ever wonder why Aiden hated your friend so much?” Milo added, hands clasped behind his back. “I mean… Jesse. I mean, what he really blamed her for? And also… what was Ivor really hiding in that basement? I mean, we talk about golems and all, but…”

A voice cut through his words, rough and deep, both close and sudden.

“What I was hiding? One of my greatest mistakes. A creation far too powerful… that I had the foolishness to try and fix by making another.”

Lukas startled slightly. He turned and instantly recognized the hunched silhouette of Ivor. The man was holding several books against his chest — old tomes worn down by time — and his voice trailed like dust in the air. Isa was at his side, calm and watchful. Behind her, the Eversource… and even the chicken, perfectly still, as if frozen.

Ivor stepped forward a few paces, then stopped, locking eyes with Lukas.

“You were talking about EnderCon, weren’t you?” he asked. His voice was deep, but not hostile. Rather, it carried a quiet respect.

Isa spoke next, almost immediately:

“I’ve been wondering what could have happened in your world to… shake you this much, Lukas.”

She didn’t say it to judge. On the contrary. It was her way of showing she was listening, that she was paying attention. That she understood just how much Jesse’s absence weighed on him.

Milo, on his part, had gone quiet. He rested his arms on his knees, thinking.

He realized he’d only asked one simple question — What was Jesse like? — and Lukas had responded as if Jesse were an entire world, a story with no final page.

He could’ve found it over the top. But he didn’t.

He found it… beautiful.

Brutal, too. And real.

If talking about her keeps him standing, Milo thought, then let him talk. As much as he needs. Let him say everything in his heart. Because Jesse deserved to be remembered like that.

Even the chicken, in the strange stillness of the fading day, seemed to agree.

“Nothing, really…” Lukas said, turning toward Ivor. His voice was hoarse, carved out by emotion.

“I was just telling Milo what Jesse was like.”

Then he narrowed his eyes slightly.

“But if you’re here, I’m guessing it’s not just to listen to stories.”

Ivor’s eyes settled on him, arms full of dusty grimoires, his coat fluttering lightly in the wind.

“Correct, Lukas. I came to tell you… that I found the portal.”

Silence. Instant. As if even the stone held its breath.

Milo frowned, straightening like a post on the edge of the roof. “The portal? Yours?”

Lukas stood slowly, eyes wide. Then, without a word, he jumped down — boots clapping against the stone of the ground floor. He stood in front of Ivor, arms at his sides, jaw tight.

“You really found it? This isn’t one of your crazy theories?”

Ivor gave a crooked smile. “You know me, Lukas. I don’t deal in theories… without foundations. And besides — who else but me could still pull off miracles like these?”

Lukas rolled his eyes, tired.

“You call those miracles? I’d say… weird creations. Sometimes catastrophic. You’ve got a knack for making stuff no one else would even dare to imagine.”

He muttered under his breath,

“And that’s not always a compliment.”

Ivor raised his hands.

“Doesn’t matter. Follow me. The portal isn’t even two steps from here.”

Without waiting, he set off, boots crunching over dry earth. Milo climbed down from the rooftop and joined Lukas. He glanced curiously between the two men, then asked, almost naively:

“This is the portal that brought you to our world, right?”

“Yeah,” Lukas replied, a bit curt. “It’s thanks to that thing we landed here. A portal powered by an enchanted flint… one we found back home.”

He walked in silence for a moment, then muttered under his breath, as if speaking to himself.

“Well… thanks to it… or because of it.”

Milo tilted his head slightly, surprised.

Lukas sniffed, eyes hard.

“If Jesse hadn’t found that damn flint… If we hadn’t found that portal… maybe we’d never have left. Maybe we would’ve just kept living our lives back there, peacefully. Maybe… Aiden would’ve never dared to do what he did.”

He shook his head.

“I know it’s not fair. It’s not the portal. It’s Aiden. He’s the problem. But…”

He swallowed, gaze lost on the horizon.

“I can’t help but feel like everything started there.”

They kept walking, the blocks crunching underfoot. A soft breeze drifted through the worn stones of Sky City, but Isa still said nothing. It was strange — almost unsettling. Even Ivor, usually lost in his thoughts, seemed to notice her heavy silence.

Eventually, she spoke, her tone calm, but restrained.

“This… flint. The one you used. What did it look like?”

Ivor stopped, turning to her, his eyes gleaming with a near-teacherly spark.

“Nothing complicated. It was a flint. But not an ordinary one. A stone with pulsing reflections — almost alive. It seemed to change color depending on the light of the world you were in.”

“So an enchanted flint?” Lukas offered, arms crossed.

Ivor nodded.

“Exactly. But not the kind of thing you make with an enchantment table or a basic spellbook. No. These artifacts… they’re forged from things that don’t even exist in most worlds. Their recipe is unique. Unknown. Lost with their creator — or creators.”

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the distance.

“If you lose a key like that, Lukas… you can never make it again.”

Silence fell, heavy, until the path widened… and the portal came into view.

Half-buried between crumbled walls and roots creeping through the cracked stone, the frame was still standing. At its center, a perfectly black void — dormant. Golden veins ran along the stone, as if molten into the blocks. It was a beautiful relic. And terrifying.

Lukas came to a halt, eyes wide.

“This is it?…”

Isa froze too. Her breath caught.

She knew this place.

“Wait… this was it… this is where Jesse dug.”

“Yes,” Lukas murmured, almost surprised. “She told me she found the portal down here. But I never saw it with my own eyes.”

He rubbed his arm.

“I was… messed up. Aiden really did a number on me. And I was busy digging my own way out.”

Isa lowered her eyes. The unease radiating from her was becoming almost tangible.

“You mean… this portal is the one Jesse and I found when we were digging our way up to Sky City?”

“That’s the one,” Ivor confirmed.

He gently placed his grimoires beside a rock and knelt to inspect the carvings on the frame.

“Yours,” he said, lifting his eyes to Isa, “was probably powered by a golden key. A pure yellow, almost radiant.”

Isa paled. She straightened up, heart pounding.

“Wait… I had a golden key… with me… when I arrived here.”

Lukas spun toward her.

“You mean… you lost it?”

Isa didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cape.

Ivor’s voice turned grave.

“That wasn’t just some item, Isa. That kind of key is… unique. It can’t be remade. It can’t be copied. It’s not just practical — it’s a relic.”

Milo watched, a little lost but captivated. He might not have all the pieces… but he could sense, instinctively, that something serious was unfolding.

They kept walking, boots crunching over stone in the damp silence. The tunnel spiraled downward, a shaft of hand-carved grey rock. The air grew drier, older. As they got closer, the light dimmed, and in the shadows, something massive began to take shape along the wall.

Then… they saw it.

The portal.

Massive, set with golden blocks embedded into a stone-carved arch. It was still inactive, completely dormant. No light. No glow. Nothing. Only silence, and the weight of time. Thick vines had crept up the golden columns, slowly wrapping around the structure as if nature itself wanted to hide it forever. And yet its shape — almost symbolic — resembled a giant egg. An egg encased in gold. The image was unmistakable.

Lukas frowned.

“This portal… it’s never been activated.”

Ivor slowly nodded, inspecting the surface with scientific focus.

“Indeed. Without the flint… it remains shut.”

Isa stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the arch. She seemed distant, her gaze adrift. She ran a finger along one of the golden blocks, gently brushing aside a dead leaf stuck in the moss.

Lukas turned to her.

“You… you knew it was here?”

She didn’t reply right away. She stared at the portal’s hollow center, then looked down.

“When I first arrived here… I was alone. There was only that tree up there… and the flint. The flint was right at my feet. I… I picked it up without knowing what it was. I didn’t even know where I came from.”

“And you kept it?��� Lukas asked cautiously.

Isa shook her head.

“No. I stored it. Along with other artifacts I didn’t understand. It was strange — bright yellow, as if it were made of pure gold. I placed it in a chest. Upstairs. In the throne room.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

“Wait.”

Milo stepped forward sharply. “You’re telling me you left something that could open that…”

He pointed at the portal.

“…in the throne room? The one where Aiden’s now sitting like some kind of king?”

Isa tensed.

“I couldn’t have known what it was.”

“You? The great high priestess of rules and safety? You just left some unknown thing in a chest? And you lecture us about discipline? About caution?”

“Oh, don’t start.”

“No, I will start. Because from the beginning, you’ve imposed absurd rules on us, talked about control, preservation, locked people up for knocking over three blocks… and you didn’t even bother to find out what you were leaving behind.”

“I wasn’t alone. I had a city to manage.”

“No. You ruled it. Like a dictator.”

She shot him a glare.

“You’re accusing me of letting Aiden get his hands on something I never even knew how to use.”

“I’m accusing you of not trying to find out. They lost Jesse — and their only way home! And now it might turn against your people!”

Isa opened her mouth to retort, but Lukas raised his hand, tired.

“That’s enough. Arguing won’t help.”

A tense silence settled.

Ivor, who had stayed quietly in the back, gently ran his hand along the surface of the portal.

“Our flint… the one we used to come here… it’s slightly different. It sparkles, like a diamond. A soft iridescent glow.”

He turned toward them.

“Which brings me to a theory. What if each world had its own key — its own color? A match. Ours shines like diamond. This world’s… must be gold.”

He touched one of the blocks, then glanced up at the crown still resting on the Eversource’s perch.

“An egg. A legendary chicken. A city in the sky. It all fits.”

Lukas crossed his arms, thoughtful.

“You think the shape of the portal changes depending on the world it’s tied to?”

“Maybe not just the shape…” Ivor murmured, arms crossed, eyes locked on the dormant portal.

“If we go by what we’ve seen, every world seems to have a unique visual signature. And each key… its own essence.”

His tone deepened.

“The real problem is… without the key, this portal will never work.”

Lukas turned to him.

“You couldn’t just… make another one?”

Ivor sighed, shrugging.

“If it were just an enchanted flint, maybe. But this—this is an artifact made from lost components. Materials none of us could recreate without the knowledge of the Old Builders. That flint is one-of-a-kind. A single recipe. A single copy. If you lose the key, the world stays sealed.”

A heavy silence fell over them.

Isa lowered her eyes, folding her arms tight against her chest. You could see in her posture the tension of frustration she was trying to keep inside.

“I didn’t know what it was. Sure, it wasn’t just some ordinary flint, but I had no way of guessing it was… vital.”

Milo scoffed under his breath.

“Vital, huh? And you chucked it into a chest like a worthless pebble.”

She straightened at once, eyes flashing.

“You think I had time to analyze every object that fell from the sky? I was alone. And you’ve never led a city, Milo.”

“No. But I’ve also never locked people up for moving blocks.”

Lukas rolled his eyes.

“Milo, not now…”

But Milo didn’t stop. He raised a hand toward her, his tone sharp.

“You want to talk about now? Fine. Let’s talk. You’ve left Aiden — a lunatic — with not one, but two keys capable of opening portals to other worlds.”

Isa didn’t respond right away. Her clenched jaw said enough — she was holding herself back.

Ivor finally spoke, his voice calm.

“This isn’t her fault. She never knew the portals. She didn’t understand how they worked. She didn’t know what that flint truly represented. None of us, alone in an unfamiliar world, could have guessed its value right away.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes at him.

“You? Taking her side now? Since when do you speak with logic and… compassion?”

Ivor gave a small, tired smile.

“Since Jesse taught me how.”

Milo looked away, grumbling under his breath. Isa had stepped back slightly, as if she’d taken a blow stronger than expected.

Lukas took a deep breath. “So… either we get our original key back, the one we left behind… or we steal this world’s.”

“Exactly,” Ivor confirmed. “But there’s one small problem… it’s in the throne room. Where Aiden reigns.”

“Perfect.” Lukas sighed.

“So either we sneak into the throne room… or face him directly.”

He paused, his voice lowering, almost to himself:

“And with the strength he has now… how did he even get that powerful?”

No one answered. Even Ivor seemed at a loss.

He stood frozen, arms crossed, a breath caught between two sighs. His half-squinting eyes followed an imaginary line in the dust, as if searching for the answer in the cracks of the ground. Slowly, he stroked his beard, brows furrowed.

He saw Aiden again. Not the way he used to be. No, this wasn’t the nervous, arrogant kid—small and whiny. He remembered the moment Aiden walked toward the throne room—taller, straighter, almost carved out of stone. Aiden had gained mass, presence, something else. It wasn’t just a matter of inches. It was something more. A presence. A weight in the air. Something unsettling. And his eyes.

His eyes weren’t human anymore—not a boy’s, not a man’s. They were empty lanterns, shining too brightly. Not reflecting light, but devouring it.

“There’s something else,” Ivor murmured, voice gravelly. “I don’t know what yet… but he’s not Aiden anymore. Not completely. Either he made a pact, or he’s possessed.”

The word echoed through the hollow space. Milo stopped walking, blinking as if he’d misheard, then slowly looked up. He furrowed his brow, almost hesitant.

He took a few steps, crossed his arms, then let them fall to his hips with a tension he didn’t bother to hide.

“Great. Possessed. Just what we needed.”

His voice wasn’t sarcastic. It was dry. Sharp. Like he was trying to stay detached, but the worry was already leaking through every crease in his words.

Lukas didn’t move. He clenched his jaw, fists deep in his pockets, eyes locked on the ground without really seeing it. The word spun in his mind like a spiraling arrow. Possessed.

“This isn’t a joke,” he muttered, not even raising his head.

Unbidden, the worst scenarios crept into his mind. Aiden, as he knew him, had already been impulsive. But now? Now he’d seen something else. Something that had tossed him aside like a broken toy. Something that had slammed Petra into a wall without hesitation. Something that had reduced their entire group to powerless spectators. And Jesse…

A chill ran down his spine.

Jesse was dead.

Not wounded. Not unconscious.

Dead.

And it wasn’t an accident, or a mistake. No. It was Aiden. The same guy they’d tolerated at EnderCon. The one they’d all let grow in the shadows. He was the one who killed her. He had taken the life of the one person who held them all together. The heart of the group. Their light. His light.

Lukas slowly lifted his head, his voice barely a whisper:

“I mean… if he becomes even more dangerous than he already is… what’s stopping him from opening other portals? From playing with other worlds the way he did with this one?”

Silence fell.

Not the polite kind. A thick, sticky silence. A moment suspended in time, as each of them tried to grasp what that really meant.

Ivor lowered his eyes. Even with all his knowledge, he had no clear plan. He only knew that this kind of power never came from nowhere. There had to have been an exchange. A price.

Milo, despite all his provocations, grew quiet. He understood now—this wasn’t just a threat to their world. It was potentially a plague upon others.

And Lukas… Lukas felt something burning deep inside. Not fear. Not just fear. But an old anger. A raw exhaustion. He thought of Jesse. Her voice. Her bursts of laughter. Her refusal to ever give up. Her light. He saw her again—charging in without hesitation to save Reuben, to defend Petra, to help him. And now she was gone.

The best of them had been crushed.

And Aiden was still breathing.

Too much.

Far too much.

Lukas clutched his arm. Not the good one. The other. The one Aiden had broken. He pressed down hard—almost enough to reopen the wound. His nails dug into the fabric of his tunic, but he didn’t let go. There was something in his eyes no one had seen before. A cold rage. Silent.

He’d always believed in mercy. In dialogue. In second chances.

But this time, all he could see was Jesse’s lifeless body.

He couldn’t stand it.

She didn’t deserve this. No one did.

Especially not her.

Ivor looked at him for a long moment, then gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Lukas didn’t move. But he felt it. And he knew Ivor saw exactly what was simmering inside him. And he wasn’t the only one.

Isa hadn’t spoken yet. She stood at their side, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the ground. Not erased. Not submissive. Just… centering herself. Breathing.

A silent tension rose within her—different from anything she’d ever felt. It wasn’t doubt anymore. It wasn’t fear. It was fire.

The kind that makes you lift your head.

The kind that makes you speak. That pushes you to act when everything is falling apart.

She raised her eyes. Slowly.

“Aiden has gone far too far.” Her voice rang out in the space—low, steady, filled with a firmness no one had heard in a long time.

Lukas uncrossed his arms, surprised by her tone.

Even Ivor looked up.

“This isn’t about disagreements anymore, or mistakes in judgment. This isn’t a debate. It’s a fact. He’s killed. He’s destroyed. He’s massacred people. And… he killed your friend. Jesse.”

Her eyes hardened on that last sentence. There was a tremor in her voice. But she held it back. She refused to let it win.

“And for that… I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

She took a long breath, almost to steady the wave of emotion rising inside.

“But I don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry. Not now. Because as long as that portal is here—so long as there’s still a door between worlds—then more can fall. Like Sky City did. More people can fall. And that… I won’t allow.”

She stepped forward, walking past Ivor, then Lukas, then Milo—heading straight for the portal.

The frame stood there, silent, adorned with golden blocks overrun by thick vines. Nature had tried to erase it. But you can’t smother a secret that powerful.

Isa gently brushed the leaves aside, revealing the shape of the portal like one unveils an old memory.

She turned to the others.

“He has the key. Yes. But he doesn’t know where it goes. And that’s our chance. Our advantage. If there’s only one portal per world, like you said, Ivor… then this is it.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes, frowning slightly.

“What are you getting at?”

Isa placed her palm flat against one of the golden blocks. She stared at the stone as if trying to understand it—or speak to it.

“If we can make this portal disappear from his sight… if we can hide it, mask it… then he won’t be able to activate it.”

She turned around. Her stance straight, her voice firm. She hadn’t climbed the blocks yet. Not yet. But she had already reclaimed the space a founder is meant to hold.

“I propose we conceal the entrance. Replace blocks. Add layers of earth, stone, vegetation. Make it vanish.”

Ivor nodded slowly, his expression focused.

“As long as he doesn’t know where it is, he’s stuck.”

Lukas added, thoughtful: “He might have the flint… but he won’t know where to use it.”

And then, of course, Milo spoke up. He stepped forward, arms crossed in a sharp motion.

“That’s just smoke. A distraction to ease your conscience. Aiden’s not an idiot. He’s insane, sure—but not stupid. He has the instincts, the nerves, the obsession. He’ll find it.”

He scanned the group with a sharp look, as if punctuating his point. “He knows how these things are built. He knows the cracks. He’s capable of overturning every block, every grain of sand.”

Isa didn’t answer. But she moved. This time, she climbed. Two blocks. The sound of her boots on stone rang out like a declaration. She stood above them now—tall, unflinching, unstoppable.

“Milo. I know what you think of me. I know what you still blame me for.” Her voice didn’t waver. It echoed.

“Yes, I failed. At Sky City. At protecting my people. At understanding that flint. At making the right choices. I failed. And Jesse is dead. She died here. Right in front of me.”

A chill rippled through the air. Milo opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“I lost people. My people lost everything. And even so… despite all this chaos, I’m still standing. Because I have to be. Because if I do nothing now—if I freeze in guilt— then others will fall. And that, I refuse. I won’t let that be on me again.”

Her eyes swept over each of them—Ivor, Lukas, Milo. Even the portal behind her seemed to be listening.

Isa took a deep breath.

“This is what I propose.”

Her voice remained steady, but her breath carried the resolve of a founder. She climbed down from the blocks, calmly, reaching the ground. Not to lower herself to their level— but to step closer to action. To strategy.

“This portal is our greatest risk… but also our best advantage. It’s unique. It leads to our world, and there’s only one key. And Aiden has that key. Yes. But what he doesn’t have… is the destination.”

She slowly turned on her heel, walking toward the portal frame of stone and gold—still inactive. The vines had curled around it, thick and wild, as if nature itself had tried to bury this forbidden gate.

Isa pushed aside a few branches, revealing the familiar, silent shape of the portal.

“As long as he doesn’t know where it fits in… we have the upper hand.”

“And?” Lukas asked under his breath, intrigued.

Isa turned around, her eyes sharp with purpose.

“And… we’re going to bury it. Completely. We’ll fill this pit until it’s invisible. Dirt, stone, vegetation—nothing must give it away. Then we dig a tunnel from the treasure hall. A hidden underground passage. A bunker. Protected. Sealed. Secure. Only a few of us will know how to access it.”

Milo raised an eyebrow. “And you plan to pull that off in a night, do you?”

Isa stared back at him, unfazed.

“No. I plan to start tonight.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She stated it. Which made it all the more powerful.

“We’ll build it like a survival bunker. A well-hidden entrance, tucked into the rock, out of sight. This passage will lead directly here. To the portal. And we’ll guard it. Day and night. No exceptions.”

She gestured toward the surrounding trees. The thick canopy above.

“We’ve got cover. All we need is a decoy—something to blend it in. And traps around the area.”

“Oh, that…” Ivor breathed, clearly thrilled, eyes already gleaming with anticipation.

“Now that’s my specialty. TNT, lava, tripwires, redstone—I’ve even got schematics. We could hide pressure plates under the roots, link them to a whole array of dispensers. Just in case…”

He paused, catching Lukas’s eye.

Lukas stood silent, gripping his healthy arm with his injured hand. His fist trembled slightly from how hard he was squeezing. He was barely listening—his mind far away.

He imagined the trap. The blast of TNT. The stench of burnt flesh. Aiden’s scream, caught off guard—his silhouette blown to dust. Lukas standing over the ashes. And yet…

“That’d be too easy,” he thought.

Too quick. Too clean.

He wanted to be there. He wanted to be the one to swing the blade, to look Aiden in the eyes one last time before ending it. He wanted to feel the weight of his rage dissolve in that final act. He wanted to do it himself.

Isa kept going.

“Once the trap is in place, we start construction on the bunker. Each evening, we regroup in the treasure hall. Updates. Building progress. Surveillance. Reports from the city. And above all: coordination. We need to stay informed of every single change.”

She looked at each of them.

“There won’t be reinforcements. No one else can know what’s here. This portal, this key… only the four of us—Petra included—must carry that burden.”

“Petra…” Lukas breathed, softened by her name.

Isa nodded.

“She’s not here today, but she knows. And she’ll understand.”

“And if others show up?” Milo asked, still wary.

“No one else should. That’s why we’re setting a perimeter around the bunker. Only those with the code—or a specific route—will be able to access it. The rest? Traps.”

Isa let her arms fall loosely to her sides, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her tone lowered, but the resolve in her voice held firm.

“I’m also going to ask Reginald to coordinate the outer watch.”

Lukas looked up, surprised. Ivor nodded slowly, understanding immediately what that meant.

“Him, and five guards we trust. I trust them. They know the terrain. They know how Aiden thinks. Reginald especially… He’s seen him fight. He saw what he did. He’ll know if something feels off.”

She paused, then added with grave calm:

“They’ll be tasked with monitoring the perimeter. And if there’s the slightest sign of movement—anything at all—I want them to sound an alarm. A real one. So we know, right away, that we need to be ready.”

She raised her head, inhaling slowly.

“The greatest danger isn’t whether he’s coming. It’s not being ready when he does.”

Ivor nodded, mentally taking notes.

“And… the others?” Lukas asked softly. “Maya. Gill.”

Then Ivor straightened up.

“I’ll handle it. I know what to ask—and how. I want to understand what they saw. To know if Aiden… is still even human.”

They all nodded.

Isa concluded.

“Then we begin. Tonight. We cover. We dig. We trap. We protect.”

She lifted her chin just slightly.

“Because starting today, we’re not just surviving. We’re preparing the counteroffensive.”

Her eyes passed over each of them—

Ivor, Lukas, Milo. Even the portal behind her seemed to be listening.

She breathed in deeply. Her tone stayed firm, but low— like she was speaking to the whole world.

“I suggest we cover the portal entrance immediately. We need to bury this passage like it never existed. And from there… we build a hidden tunnel. It’ll start right here, at this exact point, and lead to the treasure hall. A safe path. Hidden underground. Like a lifeline that only we know.”

Already, they were moving. Each one grabbing earth from left and right, piling blocks over the hollow frame. Three rows, then two, then one— until the entrance was nearly gone.

Isa placed a block on top herself. Then another. A few steps farther. And another. In a line. As they worked their way up, she laid down a path of dirt— a map only she could read, a silent trail of memory from here to the throne room.

Outside, night had fallen. The sky turned to ink, streaked with pale stars. A chill breeze made Milo shiver.

Isa looked up.

“It’s getting late… There’ll be zombies. Let’s head back.”

She turned to each of them, lifting a finger like assigning roles.

“Reginald will take over tonight. He’s already fought Aiden—he knows what to expect. I want six guards total around the site. They’ll set up an alert system—even just a sound or visual signal. Any strange noise, we need to know.”

Milo nodded.

“And us? What do we do?”

Isa looked at him, gentler now.

“You go scouting. Gather real supplies. We can’t rely on Benoît and eggs alone. I saw how you handle a sword. I want you with us.”

Then Milo smiled, with his usual flair:

“For the people.”

Ivor moved toward Lukas, who still wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. His arm was folded tightly against his chest, knuckles white. His jaw trembled, but no tears came.

“I’ll head home,” he said at last.

“I’ll draw up the plans— Traps, defense structures, everything we can build around the portal. It’ll take me three hours.”

Ivor placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Eat. Drink. And rest, Lukas. You have to stay strong.”

Lukas lowered his head.

He feared being alone. The thoughts. The dreams.

“…Thanks,” he whispered. “Thanks for being here.”

Meanwhile, Isa was already tapping notes into her notebook.She wrote out the key points for tomorrow’s meeting:

Regular check-ins, updates from the city, movements from Aiden, the portal’s status. A team effort. A shared vigilance.

And as they finally began to part ways, each one heading back into the dark, she looked up one last time at the stars.

The night would be long.

Hey guys ! Just a quick note at the end: I’m reposting this story because I think I published it at the wrong time — maybe too early, or too late. It didn’t really get seen, even though I poured a lot of heart and work into it. It means a lot to me, and I plan to continue it. So yeah, it’s just a repost, no worries. Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read.

<- Day 2 (part 1 Illusory).

Day 3 The miraculous aura (part 1 Reality) →

[astralissky]

Parts of an overheating HVAC System

Timelapse and Shadow-face ALT

[astralissky]

HELP IT'S ME AGAIN -- I was wondering what your pronouns were so I know how to refer to you while screaming in the comments 🥺🥺 THANK YOU

OMG you’re seriously the sweetest 😭💖 I’m so happy right now you have no idea!!

My pronouns are she/her, but honestly just the fact that you asked?? You’re adorable.

Thank you SO much for your support, for your comments, your reblogs, ALL OF IT.

It seriously gives me so much energy to keep writing my fics — like, every time I see your name pop up I’m just 🙏🫵🫶

[astralissky]

How do you forget someone?

How do you forget someone?

Someone you didn’t choose. Someone who just… woke up in your head. Who showed up uninvited, like a parasite, like a punishment. Smoked too much, talked too loud, insulted everything. Looked at your reflection like it was his own.

You hated him, at first. Truly. You despised him. He embarrassed you. Put you in danger. He even raised his hand on you once.

Or twice.

Or more.

He tried to kill you—literally—because you dared say cigarettes were overpriced. Too dumb. Too useless. He shoved you against a wall. He yelled. He hit. And then he apologized. Kinda. Barely. Not really.

And still.

How do you forget someone?

Someone who thought he was the hero of his own war. Who believed everything revolved around him. Even when his girlfriend got torn apart in front of him, he still thought it was about him.

Not about her.

Not about Alt.

No. About him.

Like the whole damn world had signed a contract just to make him suffer in the lead role.

How do you forget someone?

Who ruined everything he ever touched.

Kerry. Rogue. Alt.

Everyone who ever loved him — he burned them all. Used them like fuel for his fucked-up performance. He wanted to be remembered. Even if it meant being hated.

And you? You were there.

Not in the past. Not in his flashy memories.

There. With him.

Trapped in the same body. The same filthy life. Dealing with his mood swings, his rage, his contradictions. Telling him to quit smoking. Snapping when he screamed at you.

But you didn’t leave.

How do you forget someone?

Someone who saw in your eyes just how broken he really was…

And for the first time — didn’t look away.

He saw you cry. He saw you bleed. He saw you scream at him, shove him, ignore him. And still, you stayed. And that broke him.

You saw him — all of him. Even the parts he never wanted to show. And you didn’t run. Hell, you even smiled sometimes.

So he took you there. To that dump, in the middle of rust and trash. In front of the grave with his name on it. And he looked at you.

And he said:

“I remember what I used to think on stage. Even if everyone died for their ideals — it’d be worth it.”

“But when I look at you…I realize how badly I fucked up. I let people down. I used everyone who ever trusted me. That blind, selfish asshole I used to be.”

“And yet here you are. You’re the only one who lasted more than 24 hours. The only one who doesn’t hate me after truly knowing me. The only one who stayed through the silence. The screaming. The fucking contempt.”

He exhaled. Long.

His hands trembled just a bit.

Not because he was crying.

But because he was scared.

Of what it meant.

“You’re the only thing I didn’t manage to destroy. And believe me — I tried.”

“But at least I did one thing right. I didn’t ruin this. Whatever this is.”

How do you forget someone?

Someone who kept you company when you had no one left.

Who, at night, asked if you were scared. If you were cold.

Who, in the worst moments, just stayed quiet. Just there. Present. Silent. Almost human.

How do you forget someone?

Who once told you they were going to disappear — and you felt that brutal, irrational panic.

Not love, no. Not really. But emptiness. Vast.

Like your body was about to become too big, too hollow, without them inside it.

How do you forget someone?

Who swore they wouldn’t get attached. Who kept saying you were the problem.

That you were “too kind in a tough shell,” “too clean,”

“too good and too soft for this world.”

And yet — they held on.

They stayed in your head when you tried to sleep. They looked through your eyes when you smiled.

And sometimes… they smiled too.

How do you forget someone?

Who said they’d loved before.

Alt. Rogue. Ghosts. Stylized memories.

Caps-locked “I used to be someone.”

But then they looked at you — quiet — while you were lying there. Out of breath. Bleeding. Alive.

And they never mentioned any of them again.

How do you forget someone?

Who saw every memory you had. All of them. And you saw theirs, too. You saw their shit. Their failures. Their war. Their desperate need to exist — even just in your head. And you got it.

You understood.

That this man never really loved.

Not truly.

He loved the idea of love. The rebellion. The looks.

Not the silences. Not the closeness.

Not you. Not until now.

How do you forget someone?

Who became your second skin, without asking. Your heart racing when they spoke. Your fear when they stayed quiet too long.

Your reflection in a mirror that no longer feels like yours.

How do you forget someone?

Who still talks to you — even when you’re alone. Even when there’s no voice anymore. Just memories. Too loud. Too vivid. Whispering things you don’t want to hear. Someone who lived in your head long enough to know how to hurt you — and how to love you, even in your place.

How do you forget someone?

Who said they wanted to leave — but stayed anyway. Clung to your mind. Your dreams. Your bones.

Said it was “temporary.”

Lie.

They never planned on leaving.

Not really.

How do you forget someone?

Who promised to let you live — and then started loving you more than himself. Started looking at you like you were his second chance. And asked you, one night, in a whisper, if you’d stay with him. Forever. Even if it meant burning everything behind you.

How do you forget someone? Who touched you without touching you. Who sighed when you cried. Who winced when you bled. Who almost fucked your reflection in the mirror. Who told you you were better than the whole damn world — but only when he was with you.

How do you forget someone?

Who knew all your weak spots — and curled up inside them. Who knew where you’d break. Who helped you survive just so he wouldn’t lose you.

Who once said:

“Maybe I was a mistake. But you’re the only good thing that ever happened to me.”

And fuck… you believed him.

How do you forget someone?

Someone who dreamed of having a different body, just so he could kiss you.

Who said he hated Night City — but that maybe he could love it, if you were in it.

Who whispered your name like a prayer. Or a curse.

How do you forget someone?

Who never said “I love you.”

But looked at you like you weren’t allowed to let go.

Like you were his only reason left.

Like your breath was his — and if you stopped… he’d blow apart.

How do you forget someone?

Who never really left. Even after you ripped the chip out. Even after you screamed, “It’s over.”

He was still there. In a corner of your skull. In a song. A smell. A shout in the street. A damn jacket left on the bed.

How do you forget someone?

Someone you literally shared your body with.

Not “we were intense” shared — I mean he lived in your head.

The kind of shared where you couldn’t even scratch yourself without him noticing.

Where he’d say you’re hungry before you even felt it.

How do you forget someone?

Who watched you through your own eyes.

Who knew when you were anxious, when you slept like shit, when you were lying.

Who knew what you liked to eat, where you liked to sit, what time you usually crashed.

Who commented when you slipped up. Who commented on everything, all the time — until the silence became scarier than the noise.

How do you forget someone?

Who saw you naked — not your body. You.

The way you breathed. The way you collapsed when no one was looking.

Your shame. Your regrets. Your nightmares.

Your laugh.

And who, sometimes, laughed with you.

How do you forget someone?

Who sat in the passenger seat during shitty gigs.

Who yelled when you took a corner too fast.

Who said “nice shot” when you nailed it.

Who sulked when you were too kind.

How do you forget someone?

Who talked to you right before you died.

Who refused to let you go.

Who fought in your place. Literally.

Who told you you were stronger than you thought.

How do you forget someone?

Who asked your name — even though he already knew all your memories.

Who inked his name on your skin.

Black. Permanent.

“Johnny” and “V.”

Like it’d never fade.

How do you forget someone?

Who loved you without even knowing what that meant.

Who hated you because you were changing him.

Who changed you without you even noticing.

How do you forget someone?

When you were two people in one body.

Two minds. Two hearts. Two childhoods. Two sets of scars. And you came out of it feeling less whole without him.

How do you forget someone?

Someone who said “me,” like he wasn’t even listening.

Who bitched about everything, messed with your head.

“You’re screwing this up.”

“You’re gonna die like an idiot.”

“I’ve seen better than this trash city.”

He said “I.”

“I know better.”

“I see right through you.”

He hadn’t even seen you.

And then came the memories.

The punch in the face.

He finally saw you. You saw what he’d lived through.

And suddenly, everything changed.

It wasn’t “I” anymore.

Wasn’t “you.”

It was us.

“What are we doing here, V?”

“We could’ve picked a less shitty motel.”

“We’re close to the city—if it goes south, we bounce.”

We. And he said it without noticing.

Even when you were hunting. Even in silence.

“Finger on the trigger.”

“Don’t count on Takemura to cover you.”

“Move. Now.”

And if you hesitated?

He yelled.

He barked.

But never because you were wrong—only when you were in danger.

How do you forget someone?

Who wanted you dead.

And now would do anything to keep you alive.

Even if it means manipulating you.

Even if it means deciding for you.

Even if it means becoming a louder, sharper voice in your head, whenever you’re tired, broken, uncertain.

Because the idea of losing you again?

He can’t take it.

Not after all this.

Not after the memories.

Not after that fucking “us.”

He gets controlling, invasive, overprotective — all in the name of “keeping you safe.”

But deep down, he doesn’t know how else to be.

You’ve become his lifeline.

His grip on reality.

He doesn’t just want you to live.

He wants you to survive everything — for him, for vengeance, for whatever’s left.

And he’ll never say it out loud, but in every order, in every sigh, in every

“we should get out of here,”

you know he means:

Don’t leave me.

How do you forget someone?

Someone who couldn’t open his mouth without insulting you.

“You’ve got a real talent for getting into shit.”

“That’s not bravery, V. That’s reckless stupidity.”

“You’re out here preaching while your hands are still bloody. Congrats.”

Sometimes, it wasn’t even criticism.

That was just… his way of caring.

And yeah, it was toxic.

It was fucked.

But it was him.

And part of you… got used to it.

Deep down, you almost expected it — that jab, that grunt, that cigarette-burn sarcasm.

He started to change. Slowly.

He yelled less.

Asked more often if you were in pain.

Said we more often, too.

“We shouldn’t stay long.”

“We’ve seen worse.”

“Wanna bail?”

So how the hell do you forget someone…

…who left without a sound?

No drama.

No screaming.

No fight.

Just… silence.

No voice in your head. No clash. No insult. No muttering.

Nothing.

Just you.

You, in an empty room.

You, alone in your own skull.

Alone. Truly alone.

How do you forget someone ?

who was in you?

Who slid between your thoughts, your breath, your pulse.

Someone you didn’t just love — someone you endured.

Twenty-four seven. Someone who drove you crazy, sure.

But who helped you stay alive, through it all.

And now?

You look at that tattoo.

“Johnny + V.”

And it doesn’t even feel romantic anymore.

Feels like a joke. A graveyard tag.

Something you can’t wash off.

Even when the body’s gone.

How do you forget someone…

when that someone wasn’t just someone.

He became part of you.

A version of you.

A voice you learned to live with.

A presence you carried through hell.

And now that he’s gone…

…it feels like someone ripped out part of your soul.

That's it! A quiet little fanfic to wait for the next chapter of "A new Project" ✨

[astralissky]

Just read your SilverV fic and I'm giggling and kicking my feet (your writing is super good and I just 😩😩🤭🤭). I was just curious about your plans for this fic -- do you have an ao3 or some kind of taglist for this fic? Also, do you have an update schedule (no pressure!!) or is it mostly just spontaneous?

First of all, THANK YOU — seriously. Like, you commented, you liked, you did everything 😭💛 And on top of that, you literally became my first real question ever !

So yeah, of course I’m going to answer your questions — I’m actually really excited to do it!

Will I continue this fic? YES. 100%.

This story has been sitting in my notes for so long, and your message genuinely gave me the push I needed to bring it to life 🥹.

The fic is currently called "A New Project", and it’s the beginning of something I’ve really wanted to explore — especially questions like:

What happens when two people who literally shared the same body are suddenly separated?

What if Johnny is “at peace” with Rogue again… but V still exists — and he tries to pretend she doesn’t?

Can someone just “move on” from a person they’ve lived inside of, body and mind?

Is Johnny really going to stay in his corner with Rogue?

Or will he slowly, quietly start creeping back into V’s life like a parasite, pretending to be “just there”… when really, he’s never let go?

There’s no world where he walks away clean.

So I built a fic around it — maybe it’s a little yandere, maybe not (okay, it probably is 😅), but mostly, it’s about how intense SilverV is. Like, soulmate levels of intense — but not the cute, fluffy kind. I mean two people who literally shared the same body. That’s next-level connection.

So yes, I’m continuing it. And yes, I might also start posting random SilverV thoughts or dumb little rambles on the side just to stay in the vibe, lol.

Do I have an AO3 account?

Not yet — I had honestly forgotten about AO3 (oops), but I’m definitely going to create one and post this fic there too! I’ll make sure to share the link when it’s up so people can follow along more easily.

Taglist or system?

So about that — I’ll be using the same tags as I did for Part 1, so don’t worry, nothing’s changing there! That way, you’ll be able to find everything easily, just like before !

I’ll just be adding one or two extra tags to make things clearer:

→ #iNewProjectV for the general fic

Update schedule?

Haha… no schedule for now. 😅 I write when I can — I love writing and drawing, but I’m also working on a lot of big timelines (especially for my Minecraft Story Mode Timeline, which will eventually connect to Cyberpunk in some way 👀). So for now, everything is a bit spontaneous — but I promise I’ll try to be more consistent!

I actually have LOTS of SilverV fic ideas hiding in my notes, especially centered around Johnny getting his body back, the whole “miracle” situation, and how that would affect everything — especially if he’s in full obsessive mode hehe 👀

So! It’s not like I have a whole fic to finish before diving into Silver V — it’s really just one last chapter I want to wrap up first. A Gift from God (Minecraft Story Mode: Timeline)

Once that chapter is out, I’ll be fully ready to focus on two Silver V stories I’ve been planning:

"A New Project"

"So Not His Type That…" — yes, the “that…” is part of the title. It’s going to be a bit of a chaotic/funny side fic. x)

So Silver V is coming soon, but I just need to finish that one last chapter from A Gift from God - then I’ll jump right in !

Thank you again for reaching out — I’m really touched. I’ll definitely continue this story ✨

[astralissky]

— mini moodboard headers & dividers | space

[perfect for intros and pinned posts! ✨]

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[astralissky]

Small passage of my Yandere (Johnny Silverhand) silverv fanfic ! (Yes, again xD)

A new Project

Chapter 1 — “Silence in the Veins”

Warning : Yandere johnny, Encombrement lol

A New Project - Part 2 ->

Ever since they’d pulled off the impossible, V couldn’t quite figure out what she was feeling. People said miracles made you happy. So why did her chest feel so heavy—so hollow, like the cold bite of a katana shoved back in its sheath too fast?

Johnny had a body now. A real one. Not a projection, not a relic, not some glitchy hologram flickering at the edge of her vision like a tumor she’d grown used to. He was here. Flesh, bones, badly smoked cigarettes. And her? She had survived. Her days weren’t numbered anymore. The relic was no longer a ticking bomb, her neurons no longer fried with every adrenaline rush. She was free.

So why did it hurt so much?

She had smiled—genuinely—when she saw Rogue take Johnny’s hand for the first time since their reconciliation. It was subtle, fragile, almost hesitant. She thought it was beautiful. Human. She told Johnny she was happy for him. And she meant it. But the words had stuck in her throat like the memory of smoke and ashes.

Since he came back, Johnny no longer lived in her head.

But he had never really left her life.

V had moved into a new apartment—spacious, bright. A gift from President Myers, supposedly. A thank-you for saving, once again, a world that maybe wasn’t worth it. The place was clean, beautiful, secure.

Also empty.

Her combat implants? Useless. Her internal circuits had taken too much damage. Viktor had strictly forbidden her from reactivating them without full medical supervision. She was reluctantly considering reaching out to Biotechnica—just to regain a sliver of tactical mobility. But the idea of relying on corpos made her sick to her stomach.

She survived with her fists, her old-school weapons, her instinct. No more Mantis Blades. No more Sandevistan. No more blinding escape in the heat of a fight. And above all… no more voice in her head.

No more Johnny cracking dumb jokes when she dropped some gang idiot.

No more shared silence between nightmares.

No more invisible eyes following her—even in the damn shower.

It was absurd. But she felt more alone now that he wasn’t there—in her.

She had thought the silence would be a relief.

No more Johnny in her mind. No more dry quips cutting in during a mission. No more gravelly voice going, “You see yourself, V? You torched your cover for a guy who couldn’t even aim straight.”

But that silence wasn’t what she expected.

Now there was nothing. And that kind of nothing… weighed more than anything.

No more glitchy holograms popping up while she cooked. No more idiotic commentary while she scrolled through her commlink. No more “You’re not sleeping?” whispered from the back of her skull. He had a body now. Real skin, real muscles, a real goddamn smell.

And yet… he was still here.

His scent lingered in the apartment. Not some bargain-bin cologne. No. The one he always wore. A mix of cold cigarette smoke, worn leather, and fucking nostalgia. It stuck. In the sheets. The hallway. Even her damn towel.

And his clothes. Still here, like he was crashing in secret. Like he hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t his place anymore.

Three nights. Three goddamn nights sleeping on her couch, uninvited. And every time, she was the one who had to kick him out.

It wasn’t normal.

He had a girl.

A life.

Rogue, for fuck’s sake.

So why was it her place he kept coming back to?

Why was it her he always side-eyed in crowded bars or packed rooms?

Why was it her name stuck in his throat whenever he talked about the future?

Maybe he just wanted to test her limits.

Maybe he wanted her to break. To say something. Touch his hand. Prove she still gave a damn.

But she didn’t say a word.

Because she didn’t know what she wanted either.

She was spinning in circles.

Again.

In that big, silent apartment, V wandered from room to room doing nothing.

No gigs. No implants online. Just her crossed arms, her instincts, and that damn feeling of floating in a void that smelled like… him.

Johnny.

Eventually, she stepped outside. The white concrete of the terrace stung her bare feet. A bit of wind, some flickering blue light from the neon signs down below. And the pool—immense, flawless. She’d told herself: come on, relax a bit. Take a dip. Try to forget the rest.

But then she saw it.

A lounge chair—one of those fancy plush ones you only find in penthouses. And on it, casually tossed?

One of his fucking boots.

Black. Worn. Classic Johnny.

Next to it? A half-crushed cigarette. An empty pack. An open one. And most of all… his sunglasses.

“No… oh fuck off…”

She stepped closer, picking everything up like it was evidence from a crime scene. And with each item, she thought: okay, that’s too much. There was even an ashtray—still warm, filled with butts.

He’d been here.

Very recently.

As she came back inside, the smell hit her in the face like a punch: cologne, smoke, leather.

Johnny.

Everywhere.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Her eyes locked onto a black leather jacket.

Not hers.

Another one. A bit too worn to be recent.

“Fuck… no…”

She yanked open the closets in a frenzy. Her clothes, her shirts, her pants.

But also his shirts.

His old tank top.

Even his favorite leather pants — the ones with the rips on the thigh.

Just hanging there, like they belonged. Like he belonged.

Fuck… even an extra toothbrush in the bathroom.

Shower gel she’d never bought.

A half-drunk can in the fridge.

Even her instant noodle stash — hers — was missing a few packs.

What the hell was this?

Stealth squatting mode?

She opened a random cupboard and let out a half-crazed laugh.

A neat pile of his t-shirts. Folded.

As if she were… his girlfriend.

Except she wasn’t.

They weren’t dating.

They weren’t roommates.

And this — this — wasn’t normal.

“We can be friends, sure, but you’re clingier than a fucking shadow…”

V grabbed a storage bin, dragged it into another room, and started stuffing everything inside.

The shirts. The boots. The goddamn toothbrush.

A half-empty bottle of cologne.

And the more of Johnny’s stuff she crammed into the bin, the more she realized her things… smelled like him too.

It had seeped in.

Like a fucking infection.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny…”

Her voice echoed off the empty walls.

She was talking to herself.

But really, she was talking to him.

To his ghost.

To his scent.

To his silence.

“No wonder I can’t forget you. You’ve littered your shit EVERYWHERE. Why don’t you leave that crap at Rogue’s place, huh? She’s your girl, isn’t she? Go infest her apartment, for fuck’s sake…”

And it wasn’t until she sat down in the middle of the living room that it hit her.

Even her own clothes smelled like him.

He’d left his scent on her.

On her life.

On her space.

And it had only been six months since he got his body back.

“Fuck, Johnny… you don’t even live here. So why the hell are you acting like you pay rent?”

She spun around, agitated, slammed the bin shut, started rummaging through other drawers. Other corners. His damn sunglasses. A spent pistol cartridge in the living room drawer. Even a half-smoked cigarette still sitting on the terrace.

Seriously?

It felt like being stuck in some messed-up relationship she never agreed to.

Like those fucked-up stories where the cheating guy intentionally leaves clothes at his mistress’s place — just so she won’t forget him.

To keep the territory warm.

“You could’ve dumped your shit at Rogue’s. You could’ve stayed at her place.

So why… why the fuck is it always here you come back to?”

And her? What was she in all this?

She was no one.

Not official. Not even temporary.

Just there.

In the middle.

And Rogue?

Did she know about any of this?

Did she suspect Johnny was crashing his nights here, dragging his scent across someone else’s sheets?

She didn’t expect an answer.

But fuck, she would’ve liked one.

Or maybe… Rogue didn’t care.

Like everyone else didn’t.

Everyone except V.

She wandered through the living room, barefoot on marble that was way too polished.

Blank stare, arms crossed — like exhaustion had blended with some kind of fed-up ache deep in her gut.

She didn’t even know why she was this pissed.

Was it really the smell?

The clothes?

Or just… realizing it had taken her six whole months to see how her life wasn’t really hers anymore?

Because it’s not like she was some model of discipline.

V knew it — her place was never a temple of order.

When she came home from gigs, she crashed.

Gun in one hand, jacket tossed in the other direction, boots half-kicked under the couch.

The kind to think “I’ll clean up tomorrow,” and then forget the next day.

She kept it barely decent.

Maybe a vacuum run if she had the energy.

Some surface-level cleanup.

But meticulous? Never.

Not at home.

Not inside her own walls.

And maybe that’s what had killed her slowly.

Because by letting things pile up, Johnny’s shit had blended into the background.

Like ink stains on a page already ruined.

One t-shirt here, a zippo there.

Then his smokes.

His boots.

Then that leather jacket.

And since she came home late, always exhausted, she’d stopped noticing.

Eventually, it just became… normal.

But that night, she’d had enough.

Enough of his scent in her bed. Enough of stepping on ashes with bare feet. Enough of opening her closet and seeing his shit taking up space.

So she’d climbed the stairs. Her multi-million eurodollar apartment — hand-delivered by the president herself — might’ve been all glass and shine,

but it still wasn’t her apartment in the Glen.

That place had been smaller, sure, but enough for one person. Hell, borderline luxury, if she was being honest. Messier, obviously, thanks to her — and more alive.

Here? Everything was too clean.

Too high up. Too quiet.

Even the silence had an echo.

She pushed the door to her bedroom open.

The room was massive, like everything else in that apartment Myers had gifted her.

An entire floor just to sleep. Ridiculous.

She could’ve fit three merc hideouts in here, easy.

And still… she felt like a guest.

She stepped closer to the bed, a big plastic bin in her arms.

Fifth one already.

She sat at the edge, exhaled. Her spine cracked.

She tilted her head a little.

And of course — as usual: Johnny’s shit. Everywhere.

Clothes draped over the back of the chair.

A crushed cigarette on the window ledge.

Shoes tossed crooked near the wall.

A jacket thrown inside-out.

Even an empty cup of noodles on her nightstand.

“What the fuck is this… what the fuck are you doing, seriously?”

She scooped up what she could and tossed it all into the bin.

Bin number five.

Four others already full, waiting in the living room.

She sighed, sat again, eyes drifting into space.

And that’s when she saw it.

Something black.

Peeking out from under the bed.

She frowned, leaned in.

Pulled it out like it was some horror movie prop.

“…Oh no. Oh no no no.

You’ve got to be kidding me, man.”

She bent down further, tugged gently.

And yeah. Confirmed.

A fucking pair of boxers.

Black. Crumpled.

Still carrying that awful blend of synth detergent and sweaty rockstar stench.

She let it drop onto the bed, disgusted.

Got up, paced a few steps, leaned back against the wall.

“You think I’m your fucking choom or what…?”

And then she laughed.

A nervous, broken laugh.

The kind that spills out when you’re too tired to keep it in.

She ran a hand down her face.

Then her eyes landed on a beard cream, sitting on her dresser.

“For real, Johnny… you shaved here too?

What’s next, a damn bathrobe with your initials on it?”

The razor lay right next to it.

Beard hairs still in the sink.

Even that — he left around.

She clenched her jaw.

And suddenly, it all felt like too much.

The cigarette butts.

The clothes.

That voice that wasn’t in her head anymore — but was everywhere else.

Like he’d never really left.

And then it hit her.

Why it had taken her so long to see it.

Because they had fused.

Back then, he was inside her. Literally.

Everywhere she went, he followed.

And now that he had a body again — a girlfriend, a restored past, a place in this fucked-up world —

he still came back.

Here.

And her? V?

Maybe she was part of the problem too.

She’d let it slide. Too often.

She hadn’t said stop when she should’ve.

She was tired. Burnt out. A fucking mess.

She didn’t know how to defend herself except with a gun.

And Johnny…

Johnny had slipped into the cracks.

Into the moments when she was too busy surviving to ask herself what the fuck was going on.

So she took a deep breath.

Gathered it all.

The boxers. The shirts. The leftovers.

She opened bin number six.

And filled it.

And just as she was about to shut the lid, she muttered under her breath:

“I just hope this is the last fucking thing I find in my place…”

But some part of her didn’t believe that.

V shoved the door open, breathing fast, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. She had the sixth bin in her arms — overflowing with black clothes, worn-out jackets, empty cigarette packs, even an old half-used beard spray. She looked up — and saw Misty. Frozen in the doorway. Looking confused, sure — but mostly… intrigued.

Misty blinked for a second.

Her gaze drifted slowly down to the six bins stacked by the wall, then back up to V — eyebrows raised, almost amused.

“You told me you were at the Glen… but I figured you might’ve crashed at Myers’ place after all. Judging by the look of this place… I was right.”

She took a small step sideways, like she wanted a better view of the bins.

“And… is it just me, or are you in the middle of some kind of apartment exorcism?”

V exhaled through her nose — somewhere between exhaustion and embarrassment.

She stepped aside to let her in.

“Go ahead, laugh, I swear… But yeah. Looks like a full-on fucking exorcism.”

Misty stepped in, her purple dress flowing behind her, platform boots clicking against the polished floor.

She’d changed a few of her rings and trinkets, but she still had that mix of mystic energy and old-school cyberpunk charm.

She stopped dead in the entrance, eyes scanning the bins.

“Wait… am I seeing this right? You sorted the whole place like this? Three of those bins are definitely Johnny. The rest… pure, undiluted chaos.”

V lifted a hand, her face drained.

“Yeah, yeah… I was supposed to take a bath. But I stepped out on the terrace, and found his smokes, his glasses, his clothes… Even his fucking boots. The guy’s not dead, right? He’s got a body now, a girlfriend, a life. So why does he keep leaving his shit here?”

“He’s marking his territory,” Misty said softly, totally unfazed.

V sighed, leaning back against the wall.

She’d rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie, her long braids tied up with a worn-out scrunchie.

No pants — just dark underwear and a weariness sunk deep into her bones.

“I’ve always been messy, y’know? The kind to throw a shirt over a chair and forget it for three days. But this? Two mess-heads in the same space turns into a goddamn disaster zone. And now I’m the one cleaning it up like it’s some sacred temple.”

Misty brushed her finger across one of the beard sprays on the shelf, thoughtful.

“You smoke now?”

V raised her eyebrows.

“No. I mean… that’s not mine. That was him. Back when he was still in my head, it made sense to share crap like that. But now that he’s out… it’s weird, y’know?”

Misty gave a gentle smile.

“I know exactly what you mean. He got you into it — even if you didn’t realize. He’s still leaving pieces of himself here. And you left the door open.”

V closed her eyes for a moment, drained.

“I feel guilty, you know? Because I let it happen. And I’m not innocent either. I didn’t check, didn’t clean, didn’t stop it. I just… let it pile up. And now I feel like I’m stuck between two lives — the one I had before, and the one he’s still squatting in without even asking.”

She raised a finger.

“Oh, and in case you’re wondering: Yes. I found one of his boxers under my bed.

A. FUCKING. BOXER.”

Misty burst out laughing softly.

“Well. That’s it then. Exorcism complete.”

V smiled in spite of herself.

“I swear, one of these days I’m gonna dump all his stuff in a bag and leave it on Rogue’s doorstep. Ring the bell, say ‘special delivery,’ and vanish.”

“Or… you could just admit you’re not a damn hotel. You’re not Johnny Silverhand’s crash pad. This is your home.”

A brief silence settled between them. Then V sighed.

“Thanks, Misty.

You brought a little air back into this mess.”

“Always,” Misty said softly. “But now, sit your ass down. I’m gonna help you erase the rockstar stench outta this place.”

She dropped her bag by the wall, then stretched while glancing at the ceiling.

“You know what you need right now?”

V, sitting on the edge of the couch with her elbows on her knees, barely lifted her head.

“Sleep. Amnesia. A shotgun?”

Misty gave a faint grin and gestured around.

“Humidifiers. You know — those little machines that purify the air, clear out bad vibes… or just the clingy smell of a washed-up rocker.”

V groaned quietly, her fatigue heavy in her voice.

“Yeah. I’ve got a few. Someone gifted me two or three. With those bullshit oils — like ‘electric lavender,’ ‘nightwood,’ ‘spirit of jasmine’… The kind of crap that makes your place feel like a zen influencer’s condo.”

“Perfect. I brought more,” Misty said, rummaging through her bag.

She pulled out two portable diffusers, sleek, chrome, almost organic in design.

“Let’s give you a full energetic reset. Not quite an exorcism… but close.”

They plugged the devices into various corners of the room. A thin stream of vapor began to drift through the air, turning the atmosphere hazy, dreamlike.

V stared at the ceiling, her gaze lost, her thoughts spinning like an antenna catching every bad signal at once.

“Misty… You think I should call him? Tell him to come get his shit?”

Misty looked up at her but didn’t answer right away.

V exhaled through her nose.

“I mean… he’s not gonna take it well. That guy doesn’t handle ‘no’ — and definitely not ‘get out’.”

“And Rogue? You ever think about talking to her?” Misty asked, adjusting a throw pillow.

“She never called me. Not once. Even when Johnny slept here three nights in a row. Nothing. Radio silence. Not a single holo, not one damn message. That’s not normal… is it?”

V wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Part of me started wondering if she even knows he’s crashing here. Like, he leaves his boots, his clothes, his smokes, his fucking beard sprays… You’re telling me she didn’t notice?”

Misty sat down on the armrest, leaning slightly toward her.

“Either she knows and doesn’t care. Or she knows and gave up trying to control Johnny a long time ago. Or she doesn’t know at all — and that’s somehow even weirder. But either way, you’re not supposed to be living with the leftovers of a relationship you’re not even part of.”

V nodded slowly.

“You know what scares me the most?”

“Hit me.”

“I think he stole stuff. Like… a couple of my T-shirts. A few pieces of lingerie I really liked… Things I thought I’d just misplaced. But now I wonder… did I toss them out without realizing, or did he…”

She stopped — like saying it out loud would make it real.

Misty tilted her head gently.

“You think he’d actually do that?”

V didn’t answer. Just let out a long, dragging sigh.

“I hope not. I can’t believe he’d pull something like that. I’ve… ripped my whole life to pieces for him. I literally died. Came back. And now here I am, sorting through his shit like some dumped ex who never even got to be official.”

She dropped back onto the couch, eyes closed, as the scent of the oils slowly filled the room.

Something gentler. Something hers.

“I just want my private space to feel like… me again,” she whispered.

“Not an extension of him.”

Misty nodded slowly, then leaned back too, in silence.

The fog from the diffusers drifted gently in the terrace light — and finally, V was breathing something other than Johnny Silverhand.

Misty had stayed quiet for a while, curled up next to V on the couch, legs folded under her. The scent of the essential oils still hung between them like a suspended cloud. Smoky wood, synthetic lavender, a hint of bitter orange.

She stood up slowly, stretched like a cat, and wandered toward the kitchen.

“Mind if I dig through your cupboards?”

“Be my guest,” V mumbled without moving.

The clink of dishes, packets rustling, a cupboard door shutting.

“You kept the tea I gave you. The summer blend.”

“Of course I kept it. What, you think I toss your stuff?”

V finally lifted her head a bit, a faint smirk on her lips.

“I might be messy, but I’m not ungrateful. That tea’s good. Even if… I still prefer my radioactive sodas that give you heart palpitations at 3 AM.”

Misty chuckled softly.

“That’s why you can’t sleep. And don’t blame Johnny this time.”

V shrugged, eyes half-closed.

“I haven’t really slept in ages. I think I’ve learned to live in the space between days. Ever since they ripped my implants out, I can’t sleep. I spend my nights pacing, staring at screens, driving aimlessly through the city…”

Misty came back with two steaming mugs in her hands. She set hers on the table and handed the other to V.

“Drink. It’ll help. Not magic, but close.”

V obeyed, slowly, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic. They sat in silence for a bit, listening to the soft hum of the humidifier.

“Tell me something,” Misty murmured. “You got any plans? Like… what comes next?”

V looked up at her, a bit surprised.

“Plans? I don’t even think I know what that word means anymore.”

“You can’t just sit here staring at the ceiling. You’re still alive. You’re not just the girl who survived Arasaka. You’re a legend. You could… I don’t know, open something, help people like a fixer. Build something.”

V let out a dry, joyless laugh.

“Yeah, I’m a legend.

A legend in pajamas, stuck in an apartment that’s way too big, no implants, no purpose, six bins full of crap from a squatter rocker who doesn’t pay rent.”

She set the mug down, rubbed her face with both hands.

���It’s been a week since I stepped outside. Didn’t even need groceries — I’ve got everything. Too much, even. And still, I feel empty.”

Misty didn’t say anything.

She just let her talk — like finally letting the water flow after months of pressure behind a cracked dam.

“Judy’s gone. River’s buried in his work. Panam… I think she blocked me. Goro—Takemura’s the only one still sending me messages, even if I never reply. I’ve ignored half my inbox. It’s like I’ve been frozen in place, and the world kept turning without me.”

She paused. Her fingers traced slow circles along the still-warm mug.

“I feel like I gave everything. My body. My mind. I took bullets in this city, I tore down a fucking megacorp. And now what? I’m just… sitting here, wondering why I feel so fucking forgotten.”

Misty stepped closer and gently placed a hand on V’s arm.

“It’s not that people forgot you. Sometimes… they just don’t know how to come back. They think you’re strong. That you don’t need them anymore.”

V nodded, her gaze foggy.

“I’ve been strong for too long.”

“And Johnny?” Misty asked softly, almost a whisper.

V sighed, irritated.

“Johnny got his body back. A second chance. He’s got his pals—Rogue, Kerry… He could be with them. But no. He comes here. Leaves his clothes everywhere, smokes, forgets his underwear like some teen crashing at his weekend girlfriend’s place. And I’m here. Picking up the pieces.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“I don’t even know if he’s coming for me… or just because I’m a landmark. A habit. Some place he knows he can always come back to without answering for shit. And I hate myself for not being able to tell him to stop.”

Misty whispered:

“It’s not about him.

It’s about everything you’ve been through.

It’s the armor you had to build.

You took hits, V. Real ones, and the kind no one sees.

But the fact you’re even talking about it now…

That means you can heal.”

V closed her eyes.

A single tear slid down her cheek — she didn’t wipe it away.

But Misty knew.

She knew it was the first crack.

And sometimes, that’s exactly where the light gets in.

The ceiling. That same damn ceiling.

V had stared at it so long, she knew every flaw, every uneven patch of paint.

She’d often wondered if the architects who designed these kinds of places ever thought about what you’d see from a couch.

And then, all at once — like a jolt of electricity — something sparked in her brain.

“Wait… Wait. I have an idea.”

[astralissky]

Timeline universe n.??????1

Day 2 - A Nice Outfit (part - 1)

Illusory

Yandere Aiden x Jesse

Warning: explicit violence, graphic death, blood, mutilation, grief, derealization, possession, obsession, toxic love, yandere behavior, trauma, dissociation, psychotic episode, hallucination, major character death, altered reality.

The sun had risen over Sky City, as gently as a sheet being pulled across rooftops still heavy with sleep. Light brushed against the white walls, the windows, the tiles, the stretches of air between balconies. Summer promised to be scorching today — unusually hot, even for this altitude.

Aiden slowly stepped out of the palace, his stride relaxed, fluid. For once, he wasn’t wearing his usual black jacket — the one everyone knew him for. He had left it inside, neatly folded on a chair, “in case Jesse wanted to feel it,” he had murmured with a smile. He wore a green shirt, polished gold buttons, slightly open at the collar. It suited him, and he knew it. He’d even thought that maybe he, too, could try a different style for once.

He looked up. Sky City had changed. The streets buzzed with life. People were building again — by hand — little markets, colorful awnings, benches, arches decorated with red and white blocks. The city had found its breath again.

“Morning, Founder!” called out an old man, a basket of bread in his hand.

“Morning! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Aiden answered cheerfully, lifting two fingers in a relaxed salute.

“Thanks for what you did… We can finally build now.”

“Jesse always thought that rule was stupid, you know. So did I. She was right from the beginning.”

Other voices rose — people smiling at him, women thanking him for the new farmlands, children running around with tiny tools, pretending to build houses out of bricks.

Aiden walked through the alleyways with a genuine smile on his face. He held a half-empty bottle of water, tapping it lightly against his leg. His eyes wandered over the clothing store windows — the hanging fabrics, the colors, the textures.

Jesse… Would pastel blue suit her? Or maybe something longer — a soft, light summer dress. She wore overalls so well, that was true. That was her. Two long blue braids, or hundreds — long, shimmering black braids, wide-legged overalls like a diva, a bright gaze. If you described that to anyone, they’d know instantly you were talking about her. That was her identity. She radiated sincerity.

But Aiden wanted to give her something else. A choice. A surprise. A way of saying, “You can be anything you want. Even a version of you no one’s ever seen.”

He could already hear her playful voice:

“So now that — now that, you don’t get to say that twice. I’m definitely saying yes to that.”

His heart tightened with affection.

He looked up toward the balconies of the west quarter. A small group was singing as they painted a light wooden facade. Further down, a bakery had just opened, and the smell of warm bread drifted gently up the stone steps.

His steps brought him to a shop window he had never really noticed before. The sunlight hit the fabric inside the glass like the sun itself was trying to pull his attention toward it.

There it was.

The dress.

Carefully hung, on a faceless mannequin. The top was heart-shaped, made of soft fabric, fitted, tied at the shoulders with two adjustable ribbons. Simple, but striking elegance. The kind of outfit that didn’t scream importance — it whispered it in every fold.

But that wasn’t what had stopped him.

It was the bottom.

A flowing, wide fabric that rippled like petals. Shades of blue danced along the skirt — from a pale dawn-blue to a deeper midnight, as if the entire sky had melted into it.

He’d never seen anything like it.

And instantly, he thought of her.

Of Jesse.

Of her two blue braids.

Of her little accessories.

He stepped inside.

A small bell rang above the door. The scent of lavender and wood filled the air. A young woman with short, curly hair looked up from behind a counter buried under a cascade of fabrics.

“Hi there, looking for something in particular?”

Aiden walked toward the dress in the window, placing a finger gently on the glass.

“That one. The blue one. Do you have it in stock?”

She gave him a curious smile, then joined him by the display.

“Oh, that one? Good eye. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece, but I have a few others in a similar style. It was sewn right here, by hand.”

Aiden nodded, almost distracted, as if holding onto a very specific thought.

“I’ll take it. It’s for… someone important. Could you set it aside? I want to add something else to go with it.”

“An accessory, maybe? A belt? Earrings?”

Aiden stayed quiet for a moment. His fingers absentmindedly slid across the white fabric, then lower, over the soft blue ripples of the dress.

An idea was starting to take shape in his mind — and this time, he wasn’t going to back down.

He looked up, more certain now.

“Yes. I want… something to go with it. A necklace. And earrings.”

The shopkeeper motioned for him to follow her to a side display case, where a few pieces of jewelry shimmered under the light. It didn’t take him long to find exactly what he was looking for: a thin, pale silver necklace, ending in a drop-shaped stone — a deep lapis lazuli, bluish, streaked with light like an ocean caught in the dark. He picked it up without hesitation.

Then the earrings. Small, round, simple — but with the same stone at the center. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… glowing.

He also grabbed a set of silver bangles — adjustable, light but well-crafted — meant to highlight the blue in the skirt without stealing the spotlight.

He knew Jesse didn’t like showy accessories. But these…

He could already picture them wrapping gently around her wrists.

He smiled to himself.

In a brief, wandering moment, he imagined the scene:

Her, tugging at the dress with that awkward little pout, mumbling that it was “too much,” that it “wasn’t really her thing.”

But her eyes… her eyes would sparkle.

He’d see it in them. The glimmers. The shifting light.

Just like the stone he’d just chosen.

There’d be a spark.

The one he loved so much.

“I want all of it,” he said — a little faster than he meant to. “The dress, the jewelry, the block-heel sandals… everything. She needs to be ready. It’s for… breakfast. Our first one.”

He heard the sentence echo in his mind.

There was no table set, no laughter, no sunlight filtering through curtains.

But he saw it. He saw it so clearly.

…

She’s probably still asleep, right?

…

A tray, warm pastries, a cup of hot chocolate she’d sip halfway, bare feet against the cold floor, the dress pulled just above her knees.

She’d complain that she would’ve rather stayed in overalls or shorts.

And yet…

She’d stay.

He leaned toward the shopkeeper.

“Do you also have white sandals? With block heels — not stilettos. I want… something she can actually wear. Not just pretty. Solid.”

The woman nodded and disappeared for a moment, then returned with a pair of white leather sandals — simple, sturdy, and perfectly matched.

Aiden felt almost light.

He hadn’t felt that way in… he couldn’t even remember when.

The shopkeeper came back, arms full, and gently set the white sandals on the counter. She was about to start wrapping them when she suddenly froze, locking eyes with him. Then her eyebrows lifted slightly — like she was finally recognizing him.

“Wait… you’re… you’re the Aiden? The Founder?”

He gave a soft smile, feigning modesty.

“Could be.”

She let out a nervous laugh, then waved her hand in a flutter, almost moved.

“Oh, then you don’t need to pay. Really. Take it all. You changed our lives. Thanks to you, we can finally create freely, sell without restrictions, choose our own suppliers. Before, the Founder controlled everything.”

Aiden shrugged lightly, as if it wasn’t much — but his fingers tightened around the silky paper of the bag.

“Thank you… that’s very kind of you.”

“It’s only right. It’s the least we can do, Mr. Hero.”

Hero.

He let the word float a second in the air — almost gently.

He picked up the packages without another word, gave a small nod, and stepped outside.

The sky looked clearer.

He squinted up at the large clock hanging at the corner of the district. Already that late?

He hurried.

His steps quickened naturally, without much thought.

There was still so much to do before Jesse woke up.

Prep the tray.

Get out the little flowered plates she liked.

Warm the vanilla pastries.

Pour hot chocolate into the pig-patterned mug.

Spread fresh bread with honey.

It was their first real morning together. Finally.

After everything they’d been through — all those fights, those sleepless nights just trying to survive, escape, rebuild.

They’d taken the Founder down.

They’d made it through the worst.

Now came the quiet.

Their victory.

Their palace.

And she’d be there. In that dress. With her jewelry. Her cocoa. Her sleepy smile.

He picked up the pace, a light laugh tugging at his lips.

It was so ridiculous… and yet so perfect.

The sunlight had already flooded the palace walls by the time Jesse slowly emerged from the bedroom, her steps uncertain. She wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt she’d thrown together the night before using the crafting table. It was way too hot for overalls today — and honestly, why bother dressing formally when you literally had an entire kingdom run by a single person?

A kingdom where only he remained — to lead it, and to stay by her side.

She’d made a point of avoiding her reflection in the recently installed reinforced glass. The throne wasn’t as intimidating as it used to be — time, and Aiden, had changed that.

To its left, a dining table had been set up — simple wood, maybe oak, but sturdy, enough to seat four guests — even though two would be more than enough. There was even a checkered tablecloth, like something out of a peaceful village. An oddity in this setting.

She ended up sitting down right next to the throne. It wasn’t hers — not really — but her foot refused to carry her any further this morning.

She’d felt it from the very first steps. A dull kind of pain, almost ghostly.

She rubbed her neck, thoughtful. No adventuring today… She could’ve read, but she preferred to save that for the evening. Too much calm all at once — it was weird.

The door echoed through the hall.

He was back.

Aiden walked in, arms full, looking satisfied. He scanned the room, then froze when he saw her — already awake, already seated.

“Well, someone’s up early,” he said with a half-smile. “Didn’t think you’d be out of bed this soon after, you know… a bloody battle with a dictator.”

Jesse sat up slowly, her gaze still hazy but sparkling with amusement.

“Oh, come on. There are mornings I can get up even after tossing a Founder off the roof of her own palace…”

But as she stepped forward to get closer to him, her leg gave out halfway — the pain hitting again, sharp and sudden.

She staggered.

Aiden immediately dropped the bags, which slid across the marble floor with a soft rustle of fabric and paper. In just a few steps, he was at her side.

“Jess!”

He caught her before she could fall completely, slipping one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees. She grumbled under her breath but didn’t resist.

“It’s nothing, it’s just… that damn leg again,” she muttered.

“I told you not to push it.”

He sat down on the throne without another word and gently settled Jesse halfway onto his lap. She ended up sitting sideways, her back resting against the armrest, her injured leg stretched out across Aiden’s thigh.

He looked at her for a moment, the trace of a softer smile on his lips. She let out a long sigh, not fighting it.

“I just… I don’t know. I wanted to find something to do. We’re here, in this empty kingdom, no quest, no urgency.”

“You don’t need a quest to matter,” he replied gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

A quiet silence settled between them.

At their feet, the bags were slightly open, revealing the folded blue fabric of a dress, some ribbons, a glint of silver and a deep, rich blue — lapis lazuli.

But Jesse wasn’t looking down.

She was looking straight ahead, toward the large glass window, where the morning light painted shifting shadows on the floor — like echoes of a world that no longer existed.

Then, slowly, her gaze drifted to the right.

Unconsciously. Toward the back.

There, just behind the tree.

The same tree from earlier.

The same… but not quite. Its roots cracked the stone tiles, its shape twisted strangely in the light, and at the base of the trunk, the ground looked different.

Red.

As if soaked with something.

Jesse blinked. Her fingers had curled around the edge of the bench without her realizing.

Stains. Dark, uneven — smudged, like they’d been spread by boots. Bits of kicked-up dust, and… blood.

She tilted her head.

No, that couldn’t be right. The final fight happened somewhere else. Underground. In the storage rooms. Not here. Not in broad daylight. Not out in the open.

She knew that.

She’d lived it.

And yet, the marks were there.

She looked down, suddenly. Refusing to look any longer.

A strange feeling brushed the back of her neck.

Like a chill.

An old echo.

A voice saying:

You’re not supposed to be here.

She focused on the floor at her feet. The tiles. The shadow. The silence.

But the silence wasn’t perfect. There was a faint crackle. Like a ripple in the air. Like a glitch in the image.

A heartbeat.

Something was trying to wake her.

“Jesse?”

Aiden’s voice cut the invisible thread in an instant.

He had approached without her hearing him. He was holding something in his arms, carefully folded. He sat beside her and, with a slow motion, placed the fabric across their shared lap.

A dress.

White, simple, flowing, with soft white bows tied at the shoulders. The ends faded gently into a pastel blue so light it almost melted into the light. The skirt unfolded in a subtle gradient, like the slow blooming of a flower — starting with darker tones at the base, rising into lighter hues, as if the petals grew with the fabric. The light danced across the pleats like they were made of water.

“See? I thought you’d like it. It’s elegant, but not too much. And… solid.”

Jesse didn’t answer right away. She stared at the garment, folded across their knees, as the light gently caught the pastel tones at the tips of the white ribbons. Silence lingered.

“Wait…” she frowned. “Since when is it that easy to find my size?”

She folded one corner of the fabric, examining the cut around the chest. It wasn’t that she doubted the elegance — no. It was just… unlikely.

“You’ve seen me try to find pants, right? Even a simple t-shirt — I have to scan the whole store, figure out which seams are gonna pinch at the shoulders, cut under the arms, or cling to the chest.”

She shook her head, wearing a tense smile.

“I’ve got broad shoulders, a broad chest, a wide upper body. And the bottom half… don’t get me started. In Conderia, even the overalls had to be tailored.”

Aiden chuckled softly, like it was all just a minor detail.

“You say that like you’re some impossible creature. But it’s not that hard. You just have to know what you’re worth.”

She looked at him, still suspicious, still unconvinced.

“Hold on… How do you know my size?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was toying with the hem of the dress like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar — but without an ounce of guilt.

“Let’s just say…” He smiled. “Since EnderCon… I’ve remembered a lot of things.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow.

“EnderCon?”

He nodded, like it was obvious.

“That’s where we met, right? You knocked over some sort of cage… a dispenser full of colorful potions. It spilled everywhere, remember? Kids were screaming, and you were slipping around like a baby llama in mud.”

She stared at him, puzzled. The image didn’t come back. Not really.

“You were running with me, laughing your head off. Olivia was yelling at us because we were covered in paint. You told me I owed you a sack of emeralds for ruining your shirt.”

“…I said that?”

He nodded again, even more sure.

“And you promised to pay me back. You never did, by the way.” He shrugged with a teasing smile. “But hey, I’m not holding a grudge.”

Jesse blinked, digging through her memory… nothing. None of it matched.

She did remember EnderCon — sure. But she went with Axel and Olivia. It was… an accident. Some rude guy shoved her into a display case, Olivia screamed, Axel threw his arms around them to shield them, and they all ended up soaked, splattered, ridiculous.

But not with Aiden.

Or…

“I… remember someone watching us clean up. Saying nothing. Just… standing there.”

Her words dropped into silence.

It stretched. Aiden lowered his gaze for a moment. Then, as if brushing the awkwardness away, he said:

“Hey, but you did think the dress was pretty, right?”

He lifted the fabric slightly, showing off the soft cut and the way the blue gradient shimmered in the light. He laid it gently across Jesse’s lap, like an offering — a curtain between them and what she’d seen earlier: the red stains, the dark blotches on the ground where sunlight no longer dared to reach.

Jesse turned away.

The field behind the tree was still marked. The ground remembered. Thick, brown stains — impossible to miss. But that didn’t happen here, did it? The final fight was in the basement. In the dark. Not here, not out in the open. Not where the sun shone so brightly.

And yet…

Her fingers tightened around the white fabric.

“I… I don’t get it.”

Her eyes wandered over the lines of the landscape. Something was off. Something was grinding out of place.

Like a sound you don’t want to hear.

Like a word you refuse to read.

Bloodstains.

Wet ground.

Death.

A soft buzzing in her ears. Like a whisper. Like a silence stretching too long.

Aiden moved closer.

“Hey.” His voice was gentle. Warm. Perfect.

Too perfect.

“Jesse… Look.” He tapped the fabric — the corner of the dress catching the light.

“We can start over here. Just us. Like it was in the beginning.”

She looked up.

For a moment, their eyes met. Then Jesse stood abruptly, as if to shake off a wave of dizziness.

“Well. Might as well try on the dress in front of you.”

Aiden blinked, caught off guard.

“You… what?”

She shrugged, grabbing the fabric with a decisive motion.

“Yeah. Gotta see if it fits, right?”

She stepped down the stairs slowly, one foot at a time, saying nothing of the pain still flaring in her ribs. Aiden didn’t stop watching her — ready to jump up if she stumbled — but she didn’t give him the chance.

At the bottom, she half-turned to him.

“Can you close your eyes? Just for a moment. So I can change.”

He raised both hands, palms open, and closed his eyes with a faint smile.

“You know… we’ve been together a while now. I kinda know everything about you already.”

“Maybe. Still doesn’t mean you get to watch.”

She slowly undid her overalls, with the calm confidence of someone who knows her body — broad, strong, real — and knows the world was never built for it. She folded the fabric and laid it on a stone bench, then slipped into the dress with deliberate care. Not like putting on something pretty.

More like putting on armor.

The sleeves fell down her arms. The white cloth wrapped around her chest — loose but not shapeless, with that heavy drape that hugged without clinging. She adjusted the folds, tugged at the uneven straps across her back. No way to tie everything on her own. Oh well. She slid on the sandals — wide, solid, block-heeled. And just then, a small smile played on her lips.

“Feels like I’m heading into a duel.”

Then she picked up a pair of white gloves — almost sheer — and slipped them on like they had always belonged to her.

Behind her, Aiden murmured:

“You know… I’d rather admire you than think about anything… dirty.”

She raised an eyebrow — not that he could see it.

“I still need my private garden, you know.”

She reached for the jewelry next — the lapis necklace, the earrings, the silver bracelets. Aiden straightened slightly, a spark in his eyes, ready to move.

“Want me to help you put them on?”

But Jesse had already clasped the necklace around her neck. It snapped shut with a soft click.

“Too late.”

She tied her braids into a high bun, held in place with a deep blue scarf — almost lapis — to help carry the weight. A few strands slipped loose, as usual. But the rest held. She held.

She turned around, stepped back twice, and simply said:

“You can look now.”

Aiden opened his eyes.

And his breath caught.

She stood there, in the middle of the room, just in front of the stone throne bathed in sunlight. The dress — white, simple, flowing — looked like it had grown straight from the floor, like a sheet of clear water that had taken on human form. Hints of blue shimmered at the edges of the fabric, like shy petals blooming. And she — Jesse — was in the middle of it all. Between shadow and light, strong, broad, stunning.

The sun poured through the high glass window. It caught on the jewelry. It danced across her dark skin, across the bold curves of her body, across the living folds of the dress. She looked like she was glowing. Like she was one with the sun.

Not a bride.

Not a queen.

Not a goddess.

Something else.

Something he didn’t dare name.

Illusion.

Trance.

Remnant.

But no.

Not today.

Today, Jesse was here.

Even if the back of the dress was barely tied. Even if one strap was already slipping. Even if one braid held on by some miracle.

She was here.

Aiden stared at her like he’d just been given a vision. A dream come true. An offering. A gift from the sky.

A gift from God.

And that was the irony, really.

Because that’s what he’d named this place.

This place.

This moment.

This Jesse.

Then… a soft sound.

A barely audible flop.

The only strap she’d managed to tie on her own came undone slowly… then slipped off entirely, pulling part of the top of the dress with it. Jesse caught the fabric just in time, arms crossed, frozen in a half-nightmare.

Aiden burst out laughing. A genuine laugh — surprised, freeing. He brought a hand to his mouth, trying to hold it back, but it was too late.

“That was… dramatic. But so you.”

Jesse looked down at the crumpled fabric, then back up at him, her expression half-resigned, half-smiling.

“Grace has left me.” She shrugged, still holding up the top of the dress.

“I swear, I can take down a Wither, but I can’t put on a damn dress.”

She snorted — and this time, the laugh was real. She tried to turn the moment into a joke — because that’s what she always did. Turn absurdity into a smile, embarrassment into a wink. She looked up.

“You gonna help me, or are you just gonna watch me turn into a lopsided Greek statue?”

Aiden had already stepped closer. For once, he said nothing. He just nodded — soft, almost delicate.

And he helped her.

His fingers moved slowly down her back, between the folds of fabric, tying each strap one by one. No words. No unnecessary gestures. Just the silence between them, soft as a breath. Jesse stood still, a little tense. Not because he was close.

No.

Because he was gentle.

Too gentle.

And she wasn’t used to that — not from him.

In her head, thoughts fired like sparks.

Since when is he like this?

Since when have I known him as anything but broken, volatile, impulsive?

Since when were we even supposed to be… a couple?

Her memories refused to settle. There were holes. Moments floating like fragments of a poorly reassembled dream. Glances, silences, gestures… but nothing solid. She frowned. Something wasn’t right.

Too many inconsistencies.

Too many.

Too many inconsistencies.

Her memory banged against invisible walls. Memories overlapping others. Absences disguised as certainties. And that voice, faint but steady, whispering at the edge of everything:

This isn’t real.

<- Day 1 (part 2). Day 2 (part 2 Reality)->

[astralissky]

Timeline universe n.??????1

Day 1 - The Disaster (part - 2)

Yandere Aiden x Jesse (Little Yandere Petra, Yandere Lukas...)

Warning: explicit violence, graphic death, blood, mutilation, grief, derealization, possession, obsession, toxic love, yandere behavior, trauma, dissociation, psychotic episode, hallucination, major character death, altered reality.

Maya was the first to fall, her weapon slipping from her hand with a muffled clatter. Gill tried one last defensive move before Ivor slammed him against the wall with a block of earth rising from the ground. Petra pushed herself back up, panting, wiping a splash of blood from her forehead with the back of her arm. Her eyes immediately turned to Lukas, who was stepping forward now—almost relieved.

He smiled. Just a little. Two bastards down was worth at least a breath of relief.

But the smile faded instantly.

Reginald and Isa had stayed behind, near the evacuation fountain, and the look on their faces wasn’t good. No hint of relief. Not a word. Not even a normal breath.

Their eyes were empty.

Completely empty.

Frozen.

And Reginald, standing tall with his back straight, head tilted just slightly, had red eyes. A single tear was slowly sliding down his cheek.

Lukas frowned.

« What the… »

Petra, right beside him, froze. Her eyes instinctively followed his gaze. Then she saw it.

Reginald.

Isa.

And that emptiness in their eyes.

She rushed over and grabbed Reginald’s military jacket with both hands.

« Jesse? Jesse, what happened? What’s going on?! »

Reginald didn’t answer right away. His lips were trembling.

Lukas had already turned to Isa.

« Isa, tell me what’s happening. »

Isa shook her head gently, breath shaky, her hands clenched tight around her skirt. She had no words.

She wanted to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.

She whispered:

« I should’ve… I should’ve gone with her… »

Lukas narrowed his eyes.

« What? »

Isa took a step back and lowered her head.

« I should’ve… Jesse… »

Her voice cracked.

Their words were weak, almost whispers. But Petra heard them. Lukas too.

Reginald finally straightened, slowly, as if forcing himself to stand tall.

His eyes were still wet.

He whispered—but this time Petra heard it clearly:

« It’s Jesse. She’s… »

« What? Jesse? What happened to her?! »

Petra gripped his jacket even harder.

Reginald closed his eyes. There was no easy answer. When he opened them again, Isa was crying silently now. Even the chicken by their side stood perfectly still, its feathers fluffed up, sensing the tension in the air.

Around them, the last of the civilians had jumped into the waterfall, carried by the enchanted wind that led them to the underground exit. The hallway had emptied. Silence reigned. Vast, suffocating.

Then Isa spoke, her voice low and hesitant:

« He really did it… »

Her fingers were trembling, pressed tightly to her chest.

Petra let go of Reginald’s jacket and took a step back. Lukas glanced at her, then turned back to Isa.

« Did what? What did Aiden do? »

No one answered. Isa blinked, tears still falling.

A sudden, icy silence fell over them.

Petra heard the words echo in her head like a thunderclap. She froze, then backed up further, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands trembled.

« No… »

Her legs moved before her mind could react. She grabbed her weapon.

So did Lukas.

They locked eyes.

No words.

No hesitation.

They took off together, side by side, driven by the same rage. The same guilt. The same fear.

Weapons drawn.

Toward the palace.

Toward Jesse.

Petra and Lukas finally reached the base of the palace stairs, weapons raised, breath ragged, rage already on their lips.

That’s when he came out.

Aiden.

But it wasn’t Aiden anymore.

Something about the way he moved, how the light seemed to refuse touching him… He wasn’t walking like a human. He was gliding, dragging, emerging. His body was stiff, his arms limp, and yet… he was holding something.

No—someone.

They froze.

All of them.

Even Maya and Gill, despite their injuries, pushed themselves up slightly to see what was approaching the edge of the stairs.

And they saw.

They saw what he was carrying.

At first, it was just a detail: a red trail, sliding behind him, drop by drop, like something dragged along the ground. Then they saw the hair. The braids. Wet and tangled, brushing against the steps, streaked with mud and blood.

Then the shape.

The head.

Jesse’s head.

Petra didn’t dare breathe. She was about to lunge. About to scream. About to strike.

But then she saw.

She saw Jesse’s eyes wide open, the pupils rolled back, eyelids frozen mid-tremble, mouth slightly parted with blood trickling out—black and red, thick and slow. Her nose was broken. Her cheeks were streaked with crimson lines. Warm blood still dripped from her chin, falling to the ground in absurd silence.

Lukas’s knees buckled.

He stumbled back a step, his arms shaking. He shook his head.

No.

No.

No.

He kept shaking his head left to right, faster and faster.

« No. That’s not her. That’s not her. That’s not her. »

He repeated it again and again, gripping his injured arm without realizing, like anchoring himself to that pain might keep him from falling apart.

Petra, meanwhile, moved forward.

Slowly.

Her face had hardened. A growl rose in her throat.

Her fists clenched, fingers whitening around her weapon. She couldn’t hear anything anymore. Not Isa, who had let out a strangled scream when she saw it. Not Reginald, frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in silence. Not even Ivor, on his knees behind Maya, one hand over his mouth as if trying not to throw up.

Petra only saw him.

Aiden.

And Jesse.

Or what was left of her.

She murmured, voice cracking:

« Jesse… »

She stopped.

« Jesse? »

She tried to take another step forward.

Aiden raised his hand.

And in that hand… was a blade.

The metal now hovered at Petra’s throat.

Just a line.

Just a warning.

There was nothing human left in his gaze.

No triumph.

No sadness.

Nothing.

Only a coldness that cut right through.

And Jesse’s head—still dangling from his other hand, held by the braids—was raised like a trophy no one had asked for, but one he had taken all the same.

Silence fell completely.

Even the wind. Even the rubble. Even the dripping blood.

Lukas collapsed to his knees.

Petra was shaking. But she was still standing. She kept trying to convince herself she was seeing it wrong. That it couldn’t be true. That Jesse would blink. That she’d open her mouth. Crack a joke. Lift her head.

But nothing came.

Aiden said nothing.

But his entire body screamed: She’s mine.

And he was keeping her.

Aiden slowly lifted Jesse’s head closer to him, like he wanted them to look. Really look. Burn every detail into their retinas. The slightly open mouth, the dead eyes rolled toward the sky, the blood still flowing from her nose, her lips, her temples. He raised his arm further, extended it, like he was presenting a trophy. Not an offering. Not an apology. A message.

Maya turned away.

Gill, though still kneeling, instinctively backed away, breath caught in his throat. They had seen horrible things. They had done horrible things. But this—this was something else. Gill, trembling, whispered to Maya:

« Fuck… fuck, that’s not even a man anymore… »

Petra didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Her body refused. Her throat closed up. Nothing around her made sense anymore. Even breathing hurt. The rage burned inside her, but the fear—the fear was strangling her.

And then Aiden spoke.

« You see her? Your precious heroine. Your light. She’s fallen. Even stars go out. Even the strongest ones. She… she screamed, you know. But now she’s quiet. »

His voice was low, almost calm, but entirely warped. It wasn’t him anymore. Nothing of him was left. He chuckled softly, distorted.

« She’ll stay by my side now. Forever. »

Petra twitched.

She screamed.

And she charged.

But Aiden’s sword rose, brushing against her armor, slicing so close to her throat that a thin line of blood opened before she could stop.

She would’ve kept going. She didn’t care.

But Ivor lunged forward, grabbed her by the waist, yanked her violently backward.

« Let go of me! »

« WE CAN’T LEAVE JESSE LIKE THIS! »

Her screams echoed—mad, broken. Her eyes stayed locked on Jesse, up there, frozen in that unreal position, dead, in the arms of a monster.

Petra kept repeating her name. Again. Again. As if repeating it would bring her back.

Lukas didn’t move. Isa grabbed his shoulder.

« Lukas, we have to go. »

But he didn’t respond. His lips were pale. He was shaking from head to toe.

« It’s a dream… it’s a dream… »

The words came out in a whisper. Isa forced him to walk, nearly dragging him forward. Behind them, Ivor and Reginald still held Petra, who kept staring at Jesse without blinking, unable to stop crying. The tears rolled down her cheeks, cutting through the absolute silence.

« Fucking flint… » she muttered.

She growled louder.

« FUCKING PORTAL. FUCKING PROJECT. FUCKING CITY. »

She hated herself. Hated everything.

For leaving her up there.

For believing they could win.

For going along with that plan.

For dreaming of a happy ending.

But most of all—

« FUCKING AIDEN »

Her teeth clenched, and in her mind, a promise carved itself in red-hot steel: she would find him. And she would kill him.

Isa jumped into the cascade with Lukas. The water carried them away.

Petra followed, held tight by Ivor and Reginald.

And until the very last moment, she looked at Jesse.

Jesse, who would never be the same again.

And Aiden watched them vanish, like a fallen king staring at the ashes of his kingdom.

Then, slowly, he sat down on the steps, and placed Jesse’s head gently against him, holding it softly, as if he still believed she might answer him.

He looked at her for a long time.

His dirty fingers, sticky with blood, trembled for a moment, then gently touched Jesse’s lifeless eyelids. Slowly, he pushed them back down. To “set” her eyes again. So she could see him. So she could look at him. Even in death.

A twisted smile stretched across his lips. A whisper broke the silence.

« There… that’s better. Now you can see, right? You see everything, don’t you? »

He pressed his forehead against Jesse’s, still kneeling, eyes crazed, hair clinging to his blood-streaked face. Then he looked up—straight ahead… and he saw them.

The people of Sky City. Dozens. No—hundreds. Forming a wide circle around him, at a distance. Applauding. Slowly. Clap. Clap. Clap. A dull, steady rhythm. Like a ritual.

His smile widened.

« They’re cheering for us, Jesse… You hear that? They understand now. They know. »

He stood up, still holding Jesse’s head against him, with a strange tenderness, almost reverence. He lifted it slightly, so she could “see” too. Her eyes, still open, stared into nothing—but to him, she was watching.

« You and me… We’ll show them. »

He took a step toward the palace, slowly. His body trembled all over, but his face gleamed with a disturbing clarity. He believed in what he was living. In what he was seeing. He walked forward as if Jesse were right beside him. As if she were standing, in her worn overalls, hair tied back, that tired little smile she always had for him when he went too far.

And in his delusion, Jesse laid a hand on his shoulder.

Then slid it down gently to his waist.

He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and breathed in deeply.

« I knew you’d stay. »

He stepped through the great palace doors. They creaked open slowly, as if greeting him too. And just before entering, he paused, turned his head—like he was checking to make sure no one followed.

He whispered,

« We have to get you ready. You have to be perfect. »

And then he shut the door behind him.

CLACK.

The sound echoed through all of Sky City, like the end of a chapter. The end of a story. The still-wet blood left a trail behind him all the way down the steps. Silence fell again.

But inside, Aiden was already talking. Whispering to Jesse. Even laughing at times.

There was no turning back now.

<- Part 1 Day - 2 part 1 Illusory ->

[astralissky]

Timeline universe n.??????1

Day 1 – The Disaster

Yandere Aiden x Jesse (Little Yandere Petra, Yandere Lukas…)

Warning: explicit violence, graphic death, blood, mutilation, grief, derealization, possession, obsession, toxic love, yandere behavior, trauma, dissociation, psychotic episode, hallucination, major character death, altered reality.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain streamed down the cobblestones, slipping through the cracks in the ground the same way memories slipped through Jesse’s mind.

She had just defeated the monsters Aiden summoned, their cracked, smoking eggs still hissing at her feet. Her armor—once gleaming as the Ender Defender—was now stained with ash and rain. It looked like it bore the weight of the world.

Reginald pushed himself up slowly, one hand pressed to his side. He was bleeding lightly, blown back by the blast of a Creeper. His breathing was ragged. He stumbled toward the Eversource, his hands shaking as he picked up the small creature. He held it close.

Then, without saying a word, he walked toward Jesse.

She felt him—his hand catching her forearm. Not tightly. But just enough to say: Don’t go.

She looked at him. He could see right through her. Maybe more than he should have.

And in front of them… Aiden.

He said nothing. Just stood there, unmoving in the rain. His soaked hair hung down over his face, half-hiding his eyes. Normally, he would push it back with a nervous flick. But not now. Now, he stayed still—twisted, curled around something broken.

Blood covered his clothes. His boots. His gloves. The ground. Every step he had taken left a red trail from the palace gates all the way to the edge of the cliff. He had walked there, dragging death behind him.

And Jesse—frozen, unable to move.

« He’s… » Reginald whispered, as if the word itself was slipping through his grasp.

Then his voice dropped, slower, heavier.

« He’s not human anymore. He’s a monster. Even monsters have reasons. But him… »

Jesse nodded slowly.

She couldn’t find the words either. Aiden was no longer a person—just an empty stare wearing a human shape. Nothing but a ruined memory.

The palace, their city, their world… all of it soaked in blood.

She thought of Reuben.

“My hero would’ve cried if he saw this.”

She turned away, closing her eyes for a moment.

And suddenly, doubt. That absurd, irrational flicker of hope.

She exhaled, looked at Reginald, and whispered, barely audible:

« Is there really… no way to talk to him? »

He stared at her, stunned.

« Are you out of your mind? Can’t you see what your—what that thing is doing? And you want to talk to him? »

« I know, of course I do… » Jesse replied. « But look at this. All of this. The blood, the chaos… We’re always striking back. Always hitting first. Maybe that’s part of the problem. »

Reginald shut his eyes.

« Please. Don’t do something suicidal. You can’t fix someone who’s—literally—tearing a genocide into existence. »

Jesse looked up at the golden ceiling of the palace, letting out a long breath. Cold rain slid down her cheek.

Then she raised her chin.

« I still want to try. »

Reginald stepped back, his throat tightening.

« Then… at least keep your sword in your hand. »

She nodded.

Not in agreement. Not really. It was a reflex. A way to stop her hands from shaking.

The floor was soaked in blood.

Bodies lay scattered, some still twitching. Others forever still, eyes wide open, staring at the golden ceiling of the palace. Maybe five. Maybe six. But the smell, the tension, the distant screams… it was enough to silence the entire world.

Jesse stared ahead.

Aiden didn’t move. He stood at the far end of the hall, between the two balcony pillars. Motionless, leaning forward just slightly. One of his eyes was hidden beneath his soaked hair, but the other… the other was staring right at her. No words. No blink. Maybe not even awareness.

And that line of blood—deep red—was sliding slowly down his forehead, splitting his face in two. He didn’t wipe it away. He didn’t even seem to feel it.

This was worse than rage.

It was absence.

Reginald stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. Jesse didn’t move. He muttered through clenched teeth:

« Do you see what I’m seeing? He’s not reacting. He’s bleeding. He’s literally bleeding from the forehead and just standing there. Like a statue. It’s… »

He inhaled sharply.

« Like I told you. He’s become a fucking monster. Literally. »

Jesse didn’t look away.

She stayed frozen.

Her gaze locked on Aiden’s one visible eye—barely peeking through the mess of wet hair. That eye… it stared at her unblinking, emotionless, stripped of anything human. Not just hate. Something worse. A kind of unbearable void.

She frowned slightly. Something was trickling down his forehead. Dark. Blood. He didn’t even seem to know it was there. It slid slowly, forming a thin red thread down his temple, trailing to his jawline. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

As if he were waiting.

Or as if… it was already over.

A shiver ran through Jesse.

She thought back to what she’d said just moments earlier—when she whispered that “Aiden had lost control.” But… was that really true? Had he lost control?

No.

That was the terrifying part.

He hadn’t.

He’d always been this way.

Since the beginning.

Memories surfaced like poison. The taunts, the rumors, the public humiliation. The day of Endercon. Reuben, who almost died over a whim. The stone he shattered—on purpose. The lava. And what he had the nerve to say afterward:

“They say extreme heat can damage the brain. But hey, it really brings out the flavor.”

Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her sword. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t a breakdown. This wasn’t a tragedy.

This was him.

She had never known any other Aiden.

And now—this wasn’t about a stone. Or a rumor. This was a city. Bodies. Screams she could still hear behind her. Mutilated guards. Wounded who couldn’t even scream anymore.

And yet he stood there. Bloody. Silent. Unmoving.

Behind her, Reginald placed a hand on her shoulder. Heavy. Slightly trembling. He exhaled softly.

« You see it, Jesse. That’s not a man we’re facing. That’s… that’s a monster. »

She nodded slowly. Not agreement. Just fact. She already knew. She had always known, deep down. She just didn’t want to admit it.

And then, quietly, she straightened—sword still in hand.

« Reginald… listen to me. »

She didn’t turn around. Her eyes never left the figure in the distance.

« Gather anyone who can still walk. And carry the ones who can’t. Get them out. Take them down to the waterfall—the one that leads to the valley beneath the stone. If I fall… if I die or disappear… you take everyone and go. Straight to the falls. »

She went on:

« And find Isa. Tell her to start a full evacuation. Through the falls. Into the Deeplands. It’s the only way still open. No tunnels. No detours. Just the drop. »

Reginald started to protest— She felt him hold his breath.

« I know you’re the Captain of the Guard, but… » She clenched her jaw. « This is my fault too. If I’d acted sooner… if I’d tried to understand him… or stop him before it got this far… »

She turned slightly toward him.

« Maybe he would’ve found peace if I’d disappeared earlier. I even thought that… maybe… if he saw me die, it’d finally quiet something inside him. But I was wrong. This isn’t a cry of pain. This isn’t revenge. It’s a fire. A fire that burns everything. Even me—it wouldn’t be enough to stop it. »

Silence fell again. One heartbeat. Heavy.

Reginald swallowed hard.

« You’re serious. »

« More than ever. »

He looked at her. Like he wanted to say something. Maybe stop her. Maybe scream. But Jesse had already turned her head again—eyes locked on Aiden. The crazed look. The blood streaking his face.

And still, that silence—so heavy it felt like it was screaming.

At last, Reginald breathed out:

« Do you really think there’s a chance? »

She stayed quiet for a few seconds.

Then, in a whisper:

« I don’t even know if he’s still in there. But… I have to try. »

He gently gripped her arm, then let go. A brief touch. Support. A silent goodbye.

Reginald lowered his head.

« Alright. I’ll get them out. I’ll come back as soon as I can. »

« You come back only if you can, Reginald. If it goes bad… run. »

He nodded. With a sharp motion, he headed back to the first of the wounded.

Jesse stayed behind. Sword in hand. Her eyes fixed on that throne-less king, standing frozen near the tree at the far end. And that red line—blood still trailing down his face, unnoticed.

She already knew what she was about to face… wasn’t of this world.

The sounds around her had faded, like they’d been drowned. The screams, the orders, the crying… all dulled into nothing.

Jesse still gripped her sword, buried in the ground near the central mast. Her fingers trembled—barely. Her other hand rested on the hilt without thinking. She tried to breathe. Or maybe she thought she was. But the air felt too thin, too heavy.

Every breath came out chopped, tense, uneven. As if her body already knew what her mind refused to name.

Behind her, Reginald was shouting orders again. He’d become what he was always meant to be: a soldier, a leader. He pointed toward the corridors, helped the wounded, made choices no one else dared to.

But Jesse… didn’t move.

“If I talk to him…”

The thought floated in her mind like a fraying thread. She had always tried. She’d approached him with caution, with honesty, even with compassion. And every time, Aiden had pushed back. Lashed out. Mocked. Manipulated. Like he couldn’t stand the idea that someone might see through the armor of arrogance.

“If I talk to him, it won’t change anything.”

But… attacking him?

Her teeth clenched. That wasn’t better. That would be giving him what he wanted. Or worse—what he needed. He’d push her to fight, to hate, to become the twisted version of herself he loved to spread in his stories.

So she stood there. Frozen. Sword in the ground.

And inside her… something screamed.

Two voices. Two forces.

One, brutal, old, relentless: Don’t let your guard down. He’s killed. He’ll kill again. You have to strike. You have to strike.

And the other—wounded, tired, but still alive. The one that believed in second chances. In words. In silence. The one that whispered: You can’t abandon him. You’re not like him. You can’t become him.

Her breath hitched again.

And still, her feet moved.

She pulled herself from the ground like breaking free from an invisible cell. Her steps were slow. Cautious. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath her, like every plank remembered the fall, the fire, the blood. She passed the scorched columns, the shattered throne, the charred banner—and finally stepped beneath the archway, wide open, bathed in blue light from the sky.

Outside, everything was suspended.

The wind had stilled. The sky locked in an unnaturally perfect blue.

And before her… the tree.

Massive. Ancient. The heart of Sky City.

Its roots disappeared into the clouds. Its branches reached higher than the palace. This was where it had all started. The first bud. The first dream.

Rain had begun to fall. Light. Cold. Steady. It streamed down the blackened cliffside, soaked the leaves of the sacred tree, slipped between the stones of the overlook… and slowly washed the blood from Aiden’s tunic.

He stood there. Like a cornered animal—but his eyes burned with a fire that had nothing human left in it.

His hands gripped his sword with pathetic force.

Too hard.

Like he was trying to crush the hilt out of sheer rage.

Jesse didn’t speak at first.

She kept walking. Heavy steps. Shattered breath.

And Aiden snapped:

« You just can’t stand not being the center of attention, can you?! You die the second people look away from you! »

His boots slammed against the wet stone.

« You always have to be the one they cheer for, the one they thank, the one they praise! You want a medal? You want your name carved into some goddamn monument?! »

Jesse stopped. Her hand closed tightly around her sword’s hilt. But she didn’t raise it—

Not yet.

« Aiden… »

Her voice was lower. Calmer.

« This isn’t about glory. It’s not even about winning anymore. It’s about doing what’s right. »

Aiden laughed. A short, bitter laugh—

Almost like a strangled sob.

« And that’s exactly why you’re gonna lose. »

He lunged.

Steel slammed into steel, a violent clash that tore through the silence. Jesse had raised her blade just in time—the impact jolted up her arm. She sidestepped, shoulder tense, feet grounded on the slick floor. Aiden was already coming back.

He struck. Again. Again.

But Jesse—

She parried. Deflected. Blocked.

She didn’t strike back. Not yet.

A downward blow—she caught it.

A side swing—she stepped back, spun her sword, slid it against his to redirect the force.

And still, he kept going.

« You should’ve stayed where you were… »

He growled between clenched teeth.

Every word was another blade.

« Hiding. Anonymous. Forgotten. Curled up in your little hole with your dumb friends—drinking soda and playing hero in your own backyard. »

Jesse didn’t answer.

She was circling now—slowly. Watching.

Looking for an opening. A way out. A thread of hope.

But then her eyes fell on the red streaks.

The blood.

It was all over him.

Watered down by the rain, running down his arms, his neck, his fingers.

And as the rain washed over his body… it painted the ground in smeared, dirty crimson. The puddles mixed and spread.

It looked like an ocean of forgotten faces.

A tide of choked screams.

Something twisted inside her.

« How many, Aiden…? »

He froze—

Stared at her, wide-eyed.

Rain fell in cold, relentless waves across the cliffs of Sky City. Thunder rumbled in the distance—

But it was nothing compared to the storm unfolding before their eyes.

Blades clashed with deafening force.

Aiden struck without pause, driven by a rage that bordered on the supernatural. Jesse held her ground—blocking, dodging, stepping back with every blow—never once trying to strike a fatal hit. This wasn’t a fight. It was a purge. A raw, distilled display of hatred, poured into every motion Aiden made.

The wet stone beneath their feet was slick, unstable. Jesse slipped for half a second, held her breath, steadied herself.

She looked up—

Blood. Rain. Mud.

All of it smeared across Aiden’s face in a nightmare blur.

His eyes were wild—veins glowing red.

He couldn’t hear anything anymore.

He couldn’t see anything but her.

She stepped back. Her eyes caught on the deep red streaks still running down Aiden’s chest, even under the pounding rain. That wasn’t right.

It had been pouring for a while.

The blood should’ve washed away by now.

But it didn’t.

It clung to him. Like it was burned into his skin.

More than a liquid—

It was a stain.

A mark.

Almost… a curse.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his—

And saw it.

That red, fevered stare—drenched in obsessions that had been festering for far too long.

« How many people have you hurt, Aiden? Killed, even? Do you realize what you’ve done? Look at yourself! »

The smile he gave her made her blood run cold.

He laughed.

Short. Cruel.

His body trembled from the force of it. Then—without warning—he shoved her. Hard.

Jesse staggered back, nearly tripping over a cracked slab of stone, but held her ground.

« Funny coming from you, Jesse… »

He raised his head—

Hair dripping with rain.

His teeth flashing too bright in the dark.

« You teamed up with the guy who created the Wither Storm. You forgave him, didn’t you? Ivor. The same guy who insulted you, used you, humiliated you. The one who got your stupid pig killed. »

The word hit her like a blade.

Jesse clenched her jaw, felt her throat tighten, her breath grow heavy. But she held her ground.

She stepped forward—just one step. Never lowering her guard.

« His name was Reuben. »

Her voice was firm. Not angry—just steady.

« Reuben. Don’t forget his name. »

Aiden rolled his eyes, exasperated.

« A name? For an animal? That pig, Jesse—that damn pig… »

But she cut him off immediately.

« That pig saved me. He saved all of us. He was loyal. Brave. More than some people I’ve known. He earned his name. And you—you never said it. Not even once. You couldn’t even bring yourself to. »

Aiden’s brow tensed, but his voice came cold and sharp.

« And Ivor? You forgive him? He killed people. He destroyed the world. He unleashed that monster. And he got your damn pig killed, Jesse! And after all that—you bring him with you? You call him a friend? »

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Rain streamed down her cheeks, sticking her hair to her forehead.

Then she opened them again—calmly.

« Ivor was blinded by hatred. But he understands now. He regrets it. Deeply. That’s why he helps us. That’s why he— »

She didn’t have time to finish. Aiden screamed—one word, guttural, raw, warped:

« REGRET?! »

And he shoved her.

Violently.

The impact hit hard.

Jesse slipped, slammed her shoulder into the edge of a newly laid slope, and dropped to her knees. Her hand caught her sword just in time. The rain-slick ground almost dragged her down the incline—but she grabbed onto a jagged block and steadied herself.

Her breath was ragged. Her right arm throbbed.

It felt like someone had dropped an anvil on her.

She looked up, panting.

How?

How had he shoved her that hard?

She wasn’t light—not by a long shot. With her armor, she was nearly impossible to move in a single hit.

And yet—he just had.

She tightened her grip on her sword, pushing herself back to her feet, legs still shaking. Her breath was short. Her voice—low, almost to herself:

« Lukas was right. He’s… way too strong now. »

She didn’t mean for him to hear it—

But Aiden did.

He let out a sharp laugh, dry and laced with contempt.

« Oh, speaking of that little mutt… »

He stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on her, a blood-streaked, predatory grin creeping across his face.

« That pathetic follower… You mean Lukas, right? »

He spat the name like poison.

Then raised a trembling finger—accusing.

« That loser who started crawling at your feet the second you got popular. The second you became the hero. »

Jesse didn’t respond.

But her fist tightened.

Aiden pressed on, his words slicing through the air like hooked daggers.

« You brought him into your little team like he never did anything. Like he wasn’t right there—when me, Maya, and Gill were tearing you apart. Like he didn’t laugh with us. Like he didn’t watch you suffer. »

He stopped.

His gaze darkened—

Sharper. Fiercer.

« You wanna know what Lukas was, Jesse? A tool. A decent builder. A guy with connections, resources, emeralds. That’s why we kept him around. You think I liked your Lukas? You think I respected him? »

He laughed again—louder, crueler.

« He was a toy. A fucking useful toy. A cute little puppet you flatter so he keeps playing along. And you… you scooped him up like a lost puppy in the street. »

Jesse’s eyes widened slightly.

She hadn’t expected that kind of venom. Not this direct.

But Aiden wasn’t finished.

« You forgave your bully, Jesse. You reached out to him. So why not me? What did he do that I didn’t? He said nothing while you cried. He said nothing while we tore you down. He even laughed. But you still brought him into your crew. You called him a friend. »

Jesse looked up, breath shaking.

Something was bubbling inside her—

A fury she’d been holding back for far too long.

« He apologized. He changed. He helped me. He saved me. And he fought beside me. »

Her grip on her sword tightened.

« Lukas is a hero. »

« A HERO?! »

Aiden’s scream tore through the night, making the stone beneath them tremble.

His face twisted with hatred, his mouth parted just enough to reveal teeth stained red, his eyes wide like something possessed.

« A fucking hero?! That coward?! That mutt?! That traitor?! »

He lunged—no warning.

Jesse tried to react—

Too late.

The blow slammed into her, hurling her backward.

She crashed into the sacred tree of Sky City with a dull, sickening crack, her back slamming against the thick trunk. A cry caught in her throat. Her knees buckled—

But she forced herself to roll.

Her body moved before her mind.

Roll. Roll again.

She pushed halfway to her feet—gasping, in pain—

Just in time to see Aiden charge again, sword raised high.

He leapt—ready to bring it down.

Jesse rolled one last time—barely making it.

His blade struck the ground beside her, stone bursting on impact.

She scrambled up, stumbling—

Then froze. She was at the edge. Behind her—nothing. Just the void. She felt the wind pull at her, the presence of the drop whispering behind her heels.

There was nowhere left to run.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Aiden stood with his back to her, pulling his sword from the ground. Slowly. Almost calmly. But his veins pulsed—swollen, purplish—beating like a heart on the verge of rupture. A ragged, animal breath hissed through his throat.

Jesse felt a chill crawl up her spine.

And by the palace entrance— Still. Silent. Soaked in rain like a statue—stood Reginald.

He held the Eversource in his arms.

His fingers trembled.

His eyes flicked from Jesse to Aiden, and back again.

He was waiting for a signal.

Jesse gave a slow nod. Just a glance.

Stay ready.

Her eyes pleaded without a word.

Aiden cracked his neck—

Never turning around.

« Funny… You could’ve been a queen. You’ve got Petra, Axel, Olivia… and that damn mutt. You’ve got what it takes to build an empire. »

He finally turned around—

A faint smile on his lips,

But his eyes were ice.

« And yet you still insist on just being Jesse. Still clinging to this idea that your friends aren’t just tools. »

His sword glinted in the dull light.

Jesse glanced behind her.

One more step—

And she’d fall.

« You know what sets us apart? » he asked, his voice suddenly quieter. « I figured out… you can’t build anything without crushing someone else. »

She tightened her grip on the hilt.

« And you, Aiden… You know what sets you apart from Lukas? »

He raised an eyebrow.

« He regretted it. You just rotted. »

Silence.

Thick.

Oppressive.

Broken only by the soft, rhythmic slap of rain against stone.

Jesse stood at the cliff’s edge, sword still trembling in her hand, staring at Aiden.

But there was nothing left in her.

No hate.

No pity.

Just… emptiness.

She’d said the words like a truth you finally let go of.

And there was no scream.

No denial.

Just this.

A twitch of the mouth.

Then a breath.

And Aiden, gaze distant, whispered:

« Rotten, huh… »

His fingers trembled. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t yelling. He was staring at his hands like he’d never seen them before.

Veins bulged, dark and sickly, all the way down to his wrists. His knuckles were bruised. His nails, caked in grime, dirt—

And blood.

The rain hadn’t washed anything away. If anything, it made it all clearer. A soaked strand of hair slid from his face. And Jesse finally saw the eye he’d been hiding.

Bloodshot. Swollen.

Like it could burst at any second.

Aiden slowly looked at her.

« You’re the one… who made me like this. »

A knife to the chest.

Jesse staggered back, breath caught in her throat.

Even now—

Even after all this—

He still blamed her. Still.

Like he refused to carry the weight. Like the blood on his hands didn’t even belong to him.

She opened her mouth.

But nothing came out.

Around them, the world felt like it was collapsing inward. The air thickened—sticky, suffocating, The wind carried distant screams. Human screams. Voices shouting names. Weeping. Begging. The sound of fire. Of crumbling blocks. Of lives breaking apart.

And then Jesse understood.

This wasn’t between the two of them anymore.

This wasn’t a duel.

It was an echo. A wave, rippling outward.

Their anger. Their hatred.

Their rotting past.

It was spreading like poison.

And that—

That was what would destroy everything.

Again.

Her legs buckled.

Vertigo.

The world tilted around her.

The sky… wasn’t black anymore.

It was red.

Not the red of sunset. No. A sick red. A tainted red. Clouds—twisting and curling—had gathered above Sky City. Out of nowhere. As if their very presence here—their conflict, their rage—had infected the sky. Slightning flickered between the clouds.

And in the distance—

In the dark—

White shapes floated.

Ghasts.

Way too many.

And then, suddenly—

She heard it. A scream. Far away. Someone shouting a name. A man’s voice, choked with terror.

« Daaaaanaaaa!! »

Then another.

« Dad, wake up! Please! »

Jesse shut her eyes.

Her fingers loosened. The sword slipped from her hand. Slowly. Then she drove it into the ground—A low, hollow clang of metal striking stone.

She couldn’t keep doing this.

In the distance—

Reginald’s eyes widened. Still at the palace entrance. His slender frame outlined by the rain, clutching the Eversource to his chest. He saw the sword. He saw Jesse. And his heart stopped.

He almost dropped the egg.

But Jesse raised her hand. Just one motion. Firm. No words.

Don’t move.

Reginald gave a slow nod, but he stayed frozen. He had never seen Jesse like this. He could feel it—he knew it. She was one breath away from dying. Cornered. Unarmed. And yet, she had chosen to face him differently.

Jesse raised her hands.

Aiden stared at her, suspicious, as if it were some kind of trick.

But it wasn’t. She was just there. Unarmed. Resigned. And more powerful than ever.

« I surrender. »

Her words echoed like a death knell.

She took a slow breath.

« I surrender… because I can’t be the one to destroy a world that’s already falling apart. »

Her eyes met Aiden’s, filled with both fury and confusion.

« Look around you, Aiden. This isn’t even our world anymore. It’s not the world you want to rule, or the one I’m trying to save. It’s a world that doesn’t belong to us… and we’re crushing it like it’s a game. »

Aiden didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, his breath jagged and sharp.

Jesse took a step forward. Her voice was quiet, but each word carried weight.

« You said this world belongs to you now… but it doesn’t. It’s just a way out. A lie. You say these things because you’re angry. Because you’re lost. You don’t even realize it, but you’re in pain. You’re screaming. Look at yourself, Aiden. Look at your hands. »

She held her open palms toward him.

Aiden lowered his eyes slowly. He saw his hands—tense, trembling, stained with black and red. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, his skin looking scorched by a fever he could no longer escape.

His eyes drifted. He reached up to his face, brushed away the last wet strand of hair stuck to his forehead, and caught his reflection in Jesse’s sword, still planted at her feet.

It wasn’t him anymore.

He saw only a distorted mask. A madman. A ghost.

He looked up, emptier than ever.

And whispered, « You’re the one who made me like this. »

A shiver ran up Jesse’s spine. She stepped back slightly. Not from fear this time. But from… despair.

That sentence again.

That poison again. Always. Never him. Never his fault.

She clenched her teeth, eyes welling up with tears.

« You see… Even now… even now, you still refuse to see that it’s you. »

Jesse slowly lifted her gaze toward the sky. That impossible red sky, that should never have existed. Suffocating clouds swirled above like a veil of blood, and ghasts circled among the shattered towers of Sky City, crying out their pain in a language no longer meant for this world. Even the light felt heavy, distorted, sick. It was like a drowned dream, or a dead vision.

And Aiden was approaching.

Slowly. Like a starving wolf who no longer needed to run. His steps weren’t rushed, nor hesitant. Just steady. A death march. Jesse couldn’t step back. She couldn’t even think. It was as if her body had frozen, pinned down by the mad gravity of this scene. Her breath caught. Her legs turned to stone.

So she made the only move she could.

A nearly imperceptible gesture of her hand, in Reginald’s direction. A silent plea. Go. Leave. Now.

He saw her. Took three steps back. Hesitated. He saw Jesse was still close to her weapon, that the sword planted in the stone was within reach. He hoped. Hoped she could defend herself. Hoped she had a chance. But he saw Aiden too. And he understood. Jesse was already in the wolf’s jaws.

She remained there, upright, unmoving. And Aiden drew closer. Taller than before. More threatening. He towered over Jesse now. She looked up at him slowly, followed the line of his neck, then his eyes. Those eyes—too close, too locked into hers. She caught a metallic scent—the sick, sticky smell of blood carried on the air. It was unbearable.

And yet.

He looked at her as if nothing else existed. As if the entire world had vanished. And Jesse finally understood what it meant to be looked at like that. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even hate. It was need. Pure obsession. Hunger.

And as every part of her screamed to run, she saw it—a tear. Just one. Warm. Then another. He was crying. Without realizing it. Like a broken machine.

And she, paralyzed, didn’t know what to do. A hand rose—trembling. Was she supposed to place it on his shoulder? His face? Wipe away those tears? Reach for her sword? Nothing felt right. Nothing felt enough.

And then he struck.

A dull crack. No scream. Just that sound. Brutal. Visceral. Aiden’s blade drove into Jesse’s stomach. She didn’t register it at first. Everything blurred. Slowed down. Her eyes searched, clung to anything—and she saw Reginald. His face frozen in horror. She wanted to reassure him. But she couldn’t.

Then, with her last breath, she screamed:

« REGINALD, GO! GO NOW! »

Blood slipped from her lips. Her legs trembled. And Aiden, enraged, drove the blade in deeper. Because she was still thinking of others. Because she had never stopped. Even here, standing at death’s edge.

« You think about him… about all of them… but never about me… »

He spat the words like a wound that would never heal.

And around them, the world screamed.

The sky vomited its monsters.

The ground shook.

And Jesse, standing before the chaos, before Aiden, finally understood:

He didn’t want to be saved.

He wanted to be justified.

The weight of her body suddenly lessened. Jesse felt it immediately.

That wasn’t a good sign.

It was never a good sign.

Her eyes blinked, confused, but her feet no longer touched the ground. She was floating—no, lifted. Carried. By him.

Aiden.

She couldn’t fight anymore. Her body was just a burning mass of pain, drained of all strength. He carried her toward the tree—the very one that stood beyond the hill. And without care, without hesitation, he slammed her against the trunk, the blade still embedded in her stomach. The impact knocked out what little breath she had left.

No scream. Just a muffled breath. The pain had broken her voice.

She slid slowly down the bark, her back scraping against the stone, her blood tracing a red path to the ground. Half-seated, her gaze blurred, Jesse was fading—bit by bit. The crimson river flowing from her widened, spreading, mixing with the dirt, swallowing the light.

Aiden stepped closer.

His fingers grabbed Jesse’s braids with icy force. He yanked them, jerking her head up to force her to look at him.

« Look at me. »

She couldn’t. Her eyelids closed on their own—heavy, aching, foreign. Reality slipped away. Her pupils drifted, floating aimlessly. She was there, but not really. And he didn’t understand. He thought… she was ignoring him.

« Stop ignoring me, » he hissed.

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

« STOP IGNORING ME. »

Still nothing. Blood slipped from the corner of her lips, wordless. She tried again to move a finger, an eyelash, a breath. Nothing came.

Aiden screamed.

He screamed like a wounded animal, slamming his fist just beside her head, into the trunk that shook from the impact. The bark split open. Shards flew. A thin line of blood slid down Jesse’s shoulder, cut by the blow. Her face was scratched.

But she didn’t scream.

She still didn’t move.

And Aiden saw red.

He repeated it again, his voice twisted by panic, by madness:

« Stop ignoring me. »

And then one last time—

A scream, raw and total:

« STOP IGNORING ME!!! »

He raised the blade.

He brought it to her throat—slowly, with a terrible slowness. He pressed it against her pale, barely-living skin. The blade trembled, just slightly.

And he pushed.

The world froze.

The still-warm blade slid slowly down Jesse’s neck.

And Aiden… let go of everything.

His fingers slipped from her braids.

His breath cut short, as if he had only just come back to himself.

He dropped his arm, frozen, and stepped back. His gaze locked in place, suspended in the void.

In front of him, Jesse didn’t move.

She wasn’t breathing.

Her eyes remained open, but empty—her pupils already rolled back, erased by the whiteness. Her mouth was slightly open, a dark stream of blood still trailing from her lips. Red soaked her clothes, her torn stomach, her wounded throat, her face dirtied by the ground. One last flutter of her lashes? No. Nothing.

She was dead.

Truly dead.

Jesse… would never speak again.

And reality crashed down on Aiden.

He stepped back again, the ground tilting beneath him, his vision shaking. A heavy vertigo. A burn deep in his gut. He bent down, slowly, kneeling by the body. His hand trembled slightly—but still, it landed, mechanically, on her neck. He waited.

No pulse.

His palm slid to her chest. Still warm… but the warmth was already fading.

She was slipping away.

She was already gone.

All that remained was this. This body. This blood. This silence.

He’d done it.

He had killed Jesse.

He had proven to himself that she wasn’t different. That she could die like the rest. That she wasn’t better than him.

And yet…

There was nothing.

No peace.

Just a hole.

A gaping void, right beneath his ribs.

But Aiden didn’t cry.

He clenched his teeth. Lifted his head. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t run. He was going to turn this scene into a warning.

A message.

He grabbed his sword.

He leaned down.

With one swift, cold, precise motion, he prepared to bring it down.

The lifted blade gleamed one last time under the sick light of the sky.

And then —

TLAK.

Into the dark.

Part - 2 ->

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[astralissky]

Chibi Affinity Character MCSM 7/8

Ivor 🧪