Jax watched the crew over the rim of his glass. Maine's team was a rare breed in a city that usually ground such sentiment into the pavement. He had seen them through the distant lens of an anime once, but five years of breathing Night City's recycled air had stripped away the romanticism.
He had learned to be a ghost, a professional, a man who kept his head down and his empathy under lock and key—yet, sitting here, that old filter started to bleed back into his vision. They weren't just another pack of scavengers; they actually seemed to give a damn about one another.
Sasha stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder and heading toward the back of the club. Jax gave it a beat, then looked at Maine.
"I'm stepping out for a second," he said.
"Aren't you going to stop him?" Dorio whispered as Jax walked away. "Sasha doesn't like people breathing down her neck. She's got a spine like industrial steel."
Maine shook his head, a knowing look in his eyes. "Let them talk. Jax and Rebecca... they've got the same curse. That damned empathy."
Dorio frowned. "He doesn't feel like Rebecca to me. He feels like Sasha—calm, observant, hiding his power. Sasha uses 'cute' as a mask. Jax? He's pretending to be a nobody."
"You still need to learn how to read the soul, Dorio," Maine said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
To Maine, Jax was a 'good man.' In Night City, that was a terminal diagnosis. A good man's heart eventually brings the roof down on everyone around him. But a good man also wouldn't slide a knife between your ribs for a handful of eddies.
"One Rebecca is enough," Dorio muttered. "Remember the kid she let go because he had 'puppy eyes'? He came back with a hit squad. If I hadn't been there, she and Pilar would be buried in a landfill."
"Jax is different," Maine countered. "He's got the muscle to back up his heart. He can protect her while she vents that kindness. Two good people together? That might be the only way to survive this place."
"Following me now?"
The voice was cold and sharp. Sasha was leaning against the tiled wall near the restrooms, her arms crossed. The docile, "cat-like" mask was gone.
"I want to talk," Jax said.
"About what?" She stepped into the light. Her eyes were hard, and her lips, usually curled into a soft smile, were set in a flat line.
"The job tonight. I don't want any variables," Jax said. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Susan had warned him. Kolina had warned him. But looking at the girl who was destined to become a memory in a credit sequence, he couldn't help himself. "I hate surprises when I'm working."
Sasha let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Variables? I can ghost this facility in my sleep. Stealing data is a walk in the park. Maine's the one who insisted on a babysitter, so I play along because he's the boss."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "But you? We haven't even known each other for a day. What right do you have to lecture me? You don't want variables? To me, you are the biggest variable in the equation. A rookie who thinks he knows the game."
She poked a finger into his chest, her expression lethal. "I'm a professional. I do the work. The mission comes first, always. So do yourself a favor, Jax. Think about your own future. Think about how long you're going to last on these streets. Mind your own business."
She didn't wait for a rebuttal. She brushed past him and disappeared into the restroom.
When Jax returned to the table, Maine was grinning. "Not as easy to talk to as she looks, huh?"
Jax sat down, staring at the table. "No."
"She's the coldest one in the crew when she wants to be," Maine admitted. "Sharp tongue, soft heart. Give it time. You'll see she's actually the most gentle person among us."
Give it time. Jax felt a cold pit in his stomach. According to the fragments of the story he knew, Sasha didn't have time. Tonight was her final act.
As the night wore on, the Afterlife swelled with the noise of a hundred desperate deals. Sasha eventually returned, the smiling, docile mask back in place. She buried herself in her deck, never once looking at Jax.
Finally, she checked her internal clock, grabbed her bag, and walked toward the exit without a word.
"Go on," Maine said, yawning and slapping Jax's back. "Work starts now."
"Just the two of us?"
"Pilar and I will be right behind you in the van. Sasha hacks the perimeter, Pilar drops the jammer. We'll be on the comms. Now move, or she'll leave you in the dust."
Jax followed her out into the crisp, smoggy night. Sasha was already mounted on a sleek pink motorcycle, pulling on a cat-eared helmet.
"Spare's in the back. Put it on," she said through her visor.
Jax pulled out a matching pink helmet, ditched his baseball cap, and buckled in.
"Better," Sasha remarked. "Now, some advice: talk less, do more, and stay out of things that don't concern you. Even if we're on the same clock."
"And if you need a hand?" Jax asked, climbing onto the pillion.
The bike was small. Jax's chest pressed against her back, his knees framing her hips. Sasha stiffened, the tension radiating through her leather jacket.
"I'm a professional," she snapped, her voice muffled by the helmet. "Mind your own business, rookie."
The engine roared to life, a high-pitched scream that echoed off the Chinatown walls. They tore away from the Afterlife, a pink blur streaking toward the towering, sterile monoliths of the City Center.