The mag-lev slid to Sasha's floor with a muted hiss and a faint citrus-and-ozone scent that clung to every corporate corridor. Thirty-two stories up, glass walls swallowed the evening drizzle, diffusing soft ribbons of neon. My goth-net top still clung damp against my skin, mesh lattice over printed bone-bull graphic, Night City's chill licked the implants that ran from my sockets to my knees.
Rebecca had barked, "Dress nice, show her you can clean up." Nice meant scav-black shorts, and the boots she'd bullied me into buying, carbon-fiber shanks disguised under patent leather. I was wearing Jackie's bomber and had my weather-scarred acoustic over my shoulder.
Door 510 slid apart before I could knock. Warm lamp-glow spilled around Sasha Yakovleva's silhouette, short hair, cable-knit off-shoulder sweater, bare feet with chrome toe rings that sparkled. Her apartment smelled of bergamot tea and something faintly floral, maybe the smart-diffuser embedded behind her book wall.
She grinned, half daring and half shy. "Hey, Yumi. Get in here before the hall cameras see you dripping all over the place."
I stepped over the threshold and a pair of tuxedo cats ping-ponged toward my ankles. Blitz and Halo. Blitz nipped the edge of my boot while Halo head-butted the guitar case.
"I knew they would like you," Sasha laughed, scooping Blitz.
Her living room, concrete walls softened by acoustic veneer panels; low, cream-colored couch parked beside a panoramic window; tactile rugs in deep midnight blue. Rain streaked the glass. On the media wall, the morning brawl from N54 played muted, a host pointing to heat-mapped dots pulsing across Watson and Kabuki.
Three weeks since the client-list drop, sadly, it's not going anywhere, and the anchor's holo-ticker still crawled with new body counts. Scav kill-teams dissolved. Animals butchered on the street. All pinned on "the Blood Cat."
"Jacket," Sasha prompted, extending an elegant hand. I shrugged it off; she hung it on a hook shaped like a chrome lily. My skin prickled when her fingers skimmed my bicep, cataloguing yellow-green bruises.
"You keep breakin' and mendin'," she murmured, not quite a question.
"Part of the job, as a delivery girl," I said.
She tilted one brow, right. The lie tasted dull even to me.
She changed the topics for now. "The window's got the best acoustics."
I parked the case on a woven floor cushion and glanced at the couch. Plush, L-shaped, drenched in the soft halo of a floor lamp. Rain fizzed against the glass; a pulse of distant sirens.
Sasha padded to the kitchen nook, hot water hissing into a ceramic pot patterned with gold constellations. From the pantry, she snagged a honey jar shaped like a tiny bear, kitschy guerrilla holdover from her aunt in Moscow, she'd told me. Halo leapt onto the quartz island, batting a teaspoon. Blitz trailed me, tail flicking over the hems of my shorts.
"Tea or something stronger?" she asked, eyes shining cobalt under the LEDs.
"Tea," I answered. Voice cracked from a week of smoke and cheap mezcal breathers. "Gotta keep the chords clean."
Sasha grinned. She poured two cups. "Chamomile-bergamot and a dash of CBD nanodrops for the bruises."
We settled on the couch, knees brushing. Blitz claimed my lap; Halo parked like a loaf on the headrest behind Sasha's head. N54's volume rose a tick—Sasha's overlay gesture. The anchor's tone dropped somberly.
"Sources inside Trauma Team confirm last night's vigilante actions leave the death toll at thirty-two gang members, no civilian casualties reported. Officials continue to hunt the so-called Blood Cat responsible for dismantling multiple criminal rackets."
A studio guest piped in, corporate risk-analyst type, eyes twitchy behind AR contacts. "This escalation is unsustainable. We're seeing a power vacuum. The 'Cat' might solve crimes, but she's destabilizing the entire police force—"
I snorted into my mug. Sasha clocked the sound, her gaze flicking from the holo to my face.
"Your opinion, Miss Reyes?"
"Sounds like corpos scared their toy gangs are going broke."
She smiled knowingly and tucked one foot under her thigh. The rain fell harder. For a stretch, we sipped in silence, cats purring. Rebecca's earlier text replayed in my head: "Sasha digs you. Don't choke."
Right. Casual.
"So," Sasha began, tone feather-soft but decisive, "Rebecca tells me you play at a professional level"
I tried not to choke on tea. "She over-sells. Im alright."
"Show me." She nudged the guitar case with one bare toe.
I slid the lid open, the instrument's varnish catching stray lamplight. My fingers framed an A minor; wood thrummed warm against my ribs. I started slow, melody.
Her lashes dipped; a soft laugh escaped. Halo's ears twitched, and the cat stepped gingerly toward the sound.
I transitioned into a blues slide, strings bending, then let the riff dissolve into a minor-key flamenco run. My voice found the pocket, half whisper, half gravel, I was scared to sing, but id try for her. Lyrics spilled in a blend of Spanish and a little Japanese.
When the last harmonic faded, Sasha was staring, lips parted. Rain popped on the glass like tiny applause.
She set her mug down, porcelain clinking, and leaned closer. "Just okay, huh?"
My face heated. "Well… maybe better than just good."
Pasha hopped off, chasing a dust mote. The TV volume dipped to background chatter—another mass of pundits yelling about vigilante contagion. Sasha shifted, turning her body fully toward me, knee brushing my thigh with deliberate ease. Her voice dropped half an octave.
"I've been reading incident logs," she said. "Cross-referencing them with zero-day trauma telemetry and darknet chatter about unique Mo-pattern wounds. Since that day in the bar when you told me about this Gotham, which I couldn't find anything about." She tapped a finger on my knee. "Your handiwork shows up more than you think."
That cup of tea threatened to drop through my stomach. "Sasha—"
She leaned in, her expression gentle yet unyielding. "I know it's you, Yumi. It's strange how you have no pass. It took me a few sleepless nights to piece it together. But I see the pattern. Gunshot placement, the cat symbol." Her fingers brushed the hem of my shorts, where carbon polymer met flesh. "And your implants."
I swallowed, throat dry as sand. The rain hammered. She wasn't accusing, she was… worried.
"Before you freak," she continued, fingers lacing around her steaming cup again, "I've scrubbed what I can. Routed spoof data to the city archive to keep forensics busy. But you're not as invisible as you think."
My pulse thumped a steady reggae beat. "How long have you—?"
"Two days after the Maelstrom raid," she admitted. "And the way you winced that night when I hugged you behind the bar, where a wound one witness described should be." She exhaled. "I just needed to be sure."
Cats drifted between us, tails flicking. The anchor droned on about copy-cats. I set the guitar aside, soft thunk on the rug, and pressed the heel of my hand to my brow.
"You'll report me?" I asked, voice brittle. Already looking through my system for my gun, just in case. But I hoped she wouldn't.
She shook her head instantly, her hair swishing. "No. Your mask's heat sink still leaks micro-particulates that VT's aerospace scanners can trace if they bother."
I stared at her.
Sasha's cheeks colored faintly. "Besides… I like what you're doing. Kids are safe because you smashed those doors. I just want you safe, too."
She bit her lip, eyes flicking to my leg implants, then back up. "Let me help. I studied network counter-forensics for CorpoSec before. We can tighten your ghost trail." She smiled. "And maybe I get exclusive backstage passes when you go pro as a singer?"
A laugh flew out before I could catch it—half relief, half adrenaline backlash. I scratched Delta's ears; the cat chirped approval.
"You're.....," I said softly. "You're crazy, alright."
"Rain-washed pact," she said, raising her mug. I clinked mine against hers.
The anchor cut to breaking street footage—red-lined sirens outside an Animals' gym, bodies under neon tarps. I lowered the TV volume to zero. Sasha scooted closer until our shoulders kissed. Her living room felt like a warm cave against the storm. "I can teach you how to loop CCTV routes," she whispered.
Rain ticked softly against the glass behind us. Sasha handed me a short tumbler, fingers brushing mine just a second longer than needed. "Try this."
I eyed the amber liquid with healthy suspicion. "If I black out, promise me you won't draw whiskers on my face."
She grinned. "Only if you snore." I took a cautious sip. Smooth burn. Notes of honey and something herbal. My throat warmed, and my shoulders finally started to unclench.
She curled beside me on the couch, one leg tucked under her, sweater falling just enough to show the pale slope of her shoulder. The ambient city-glow made her glow. She didn't say anything for a moment, just watched me with that quiet, thoughtful gaze she always had when the bar was closed and the noise was behind her.
"You ever gonna play something for real?" she asked. "Or do I have to bribe Rebecca to drag you to an open mic?"
I smirked, setting the glass down. "You asked for it."
The guitar had been leaning just a step away, still open in its case. I slid it onto my thigh, adjusted the strap, and thumbed the first few chords, soft, almost hesitant at first. But it came back fast. Fingers found their places on instinct. Sasha turned toward me, elbow on the back of the couch, chin in her palm, watching. Im so fcking stupid but here goes. And I started to sing. Quiet at first, barely above the hush of the rain.
I got my eye on the ceilin'
You throw my pants on the floor
I was just thinkin' 'bout leavin'
We shouldn't speak anymore...
Her lips parted a little in surprise, not at the tune, maybe, but at the voice. I wasn't belting it. Just giving her what I had, stripped down. Real.
I'm crawlin' into your collarbones
Where love is impossible...
But I can be your girl for the weekend...
I saw the shift then. The small softening in her shoulders, the glint in her eyes. She didn't laugh, didn't tease. Just... listened. Rain filled the gaps between lines, a hush where breath met beat.
Well, you float like a butterfly, sting like a bullet...
And your pretty face is making me do things that I shouldn't...
I didn't even look up when I sang that line, I couldn't. My face was already flushing. I knew it was pink as hell. I could feel the heat crawling up my ears, down my neck.
I just wanna feel alive tonight...
Light me up like I'm a firefly...
But I can be your girl for the weekend...
Sasha set her drink down without a sound. Her smile curled slowly, wide, like she was unfolding it just for me. Her eyes flicked to my blushing cheeks, then narrowed playfully. "…Just the weekend?" she said, tone feather-light, mock-offended.
I choked a little on the next chord and immediately started laughing, hand dragging across my face to hide the glow that had now officially spread to my whole damn skull. "Oh my god—"
"Yumi," she giggled, shaking her head, "you're actually adorable when you're embarrassed. I didn't think it was possible."
"Rebecca warned me," I groaned. "She said if I choked, she'd come up here and punch me in the face."
Sasha was still smiling, but it had changed—there was something quieter underneath it now. Something tender. She reached out, fingers brushing just under my chin, lifting my gaze to hers.
"You know," she said softly, "I was already into you before the song."
I blinked. "Wait, really?" I honestly thought Rebecca was pulling my leg.
"Mmhmm." She scooted closer, her knee pressing against mine. "But you, singing like that? Putting those words in your own mouth? You made it impossible not to…"
Then she leaned in. The kiss was gentle, surprisingly so. Her lips brushing mine, warm, deliberate, slow. My hands froze on the guitar, pulse climbing somewhere north of rational. The string beneath my thumb hummed faintly as I shifted, Sasha's hand slid around to cup the back of my neck.
When she pulled back, she was smiling again, but softer this time.
"Still just the weekend?" she teased, voice like velvet smoke.
"I—" I cleared my throat, brain lagging. "I think I might be available for… longer contracts."
She laughed again, head tilted, and leaned into my shoulder, both of us just basking in the quiet for a moment. Blitz settled on the backrest above us. Halo slinked between our legs. The guitar stayed where it was.
Dawn seeped through Japantown's drizzle in thin, just bright enough to press at my eyelids. Something warm and rhythmic lay across my breast, Sasha's head, the steady rise-and-fall of her breath still timed to sleep. For one floating second, I forgot where I was, then the memory of the night-before guitar, kiss, and laughter clicked back into place.
I was still in yesterday's street clothes, a single blanket cocooning us on the couch. Sasha murmured, shifted, fingers tightening in the hem of my T-shirt as though she'd sensed I might try to ghost away.
The front door hissed.
Something jingled, hard soles on hardwood, and a crisp voice.
" Sash? You feed the fur-goblins, or am I on kibble duty aga—"
The words stalled out. I cracked one eye open.
Standing in the doorway was a woman taller than Sasha, same eyes but framed by a regulation NCPD cap and a navy tac-jacket. Sidearm holstered, badge glinting. She blinked twice at the tableau of tangled limbs on the couch, then cocked an eyebrow.
Sasha came awake fast, pink blooming across her cheeks as she propped herself on an elbow.
"Morning, Stel… You're home early."
"And you're—" The officer's gaze flicked from Sasha's flushed face to me, still half-pinned under her sister. "—hosting. Cute."
Blood pounded in my ears. "Uh— hi. I was just leaving." I started untangling myself, nearly tripping on the blanket.
Sasha cleared her throat, voice a notch too bright. "This is my big sister Stel. Stel this is… Yumi. A friend."
"Friend, huh?" Stella's lips twitched, a cop's smile that wasn't quite a threat but definitely wasn't all that kind. She tipped her cap with two fingers. "Morning, Yumi. You're lookin' a little green."
Green? I probably was: hair a mess, cheeks nuclear red, adrenaline flooding an empty stomach. I mumbled something like "Nice-to-meet-you-gotta-run," scooped up jacket, boots, and bee-lined for the door.
Behind me, Sasha's laugh bubbled up, soft and delighted.
"Text me?" she called.
"Yeah—yes—later!" I squeaked, nearly colliding with the doorframe on the way out. The hallway felt ten degrees cooler as I shoved my feet into unlaced boots and hustled for the elevator, Stella's amused "Take care, kid" followed.
Only when the lift doors slid shut did I realize the strapless weight on my shoulder; I'd left the guitar propped against Sasha's couch. Great. An excuse to see her again….
I hit the sidewalk running, boots half-laced. The morning wind stung my cheeks, still warm from the awkward, slightly-too-intimate wake-up back at Sasha's. Every time I blinked, I could still see her smirk. Her voice whispered that she knew. That she'd been cleaning up after me.
I wove through the commuter traffic on foot, past food carts and impatient AVs rumbling in mid-air traffic, eyes darting for the tram I needed to catch to get down toward El Coyote Cojo. Work was calling—and if I was late again, Pepe would probably make me scrub the alley grease traps as punishment.
My thoughts wouldn't stop spinning. She knew, too, I had replayed the moment at least ten times already. The way she looked at me, she still kept holding my hand. I had slipped up.
Was this smart? Letting her in? Letting her see me, the real me? I liked Sasha more than I wanted to admit. And last night... It felt real. But real came with risk. sigh. I skidded to a halt on the tram platform, breath fogging in the cold.
I needed more money for gear. Upgrades. And one particular shard that'd been taunting me from my system store for two weeks straight.
Sombra.
Master Class hacker archetype. Originally from some game called Overwatch. Cloaking. Infiltration. Tech-jamming. Rewriting node permissions on the fly. I'd already maxed out everything Futaba had taught me; she was a genius, but she was from an age not like this one, and there was only so much she could adapt to.
Sombra's shard wasn't cheap. 7 digits in eddies. Even at two shifts a day, I'd be grinding for a year to afford it. But with Sasha knowing, and others maybe sniffing around? I needed it. No more excuses. The tram arrived with a hiss. I boarded, grabbed a strap, and let the rhythm of steel-on-track rattle the stress down my spine. I stared out the window as NC's skyline crawled past.