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After crossing the bridge into the jagged sprawl of Santo Domingo, Maine leaned back in a booth of a roadside diner near the Westbrook border. He flicked his lighter open and shut, rhythmically, watching Rebecca methodically destroy a synthetic burger.
"You're sure she's coming?" Maine asked, the metal clack of the lighter puncturing the grease-laden air.
"Don't doubt me, Maine. I'm not a screw-up like Pilar," Rebecca said, her round cheeks bulging. She chewed with a frantic, manic energy, spraying a few crumbs as she reached for a neon-colored soda with her small, chubby hand. She swallowed hard, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "She'll be here. How we met is my business, not yours."
Maine chuckled, reaching across the table to ruffle her shock of green hair until it looked like a bird's nest. "Guardian's privilege, Becca. If you're bringing fresh meat into the crew, I need to see if they're worth the eddies."
"Guardian? Bite me!" Rebecca snapped, swatting his hand away and promptly flipping him off. "I'm an adult! And stop talking about my height!"
Maine withdrew his hand, wiping the grease on a napkin, but his grin faded as Rebecca's expression shifted. Her large, red-yellow eyes went wide and fixed on something behind him. She pointed a stubby finger.
Maine turned. Standing at the entrance was a tall, slender woman draped in a crimson trench coat. A red metal mask covered the lower half of her face, and a cigarette dangled from the filter port.
"Am I late?" the woman asked, her voice modulated and cool.
"Just in time. I'm finally full," Rebecca said, patting the seat next to her. "Kiwi, this is Maine. He's the one looking for a second ghost."
"Sharp look, sis," Maine said, giving her a thumbs-up. "Way more professional than our current runner."
He thought of Sasha—with her cat-ear headband, Danger Girl obsession, and pink everything—and felt a flicker of amusement. But he didn't underestimate her; Sasha was a shark in a doll's outfit. Adding someone like Kiwi, who looked like she breathed pure code, was about building a legacy.
"Let's talk terms," Kiwi said, ignoring the flattery. She sat down, her posture rigid and cold.
"Even split. You work, you get paid," Maine said, dropping the charm and taking off his shades. "We're on the rise. We just cleared a 250,000-euro corporate hit. We're getting invited to the Afterlife. Join us, and you won't just be taking odd jobs for scraps."
Kiwi's eyes flickered behind her mask. The promise of the Afterlife and a quarter-million-euro payout was a hell of a lot better than arguing with street fixers over five-hundred-eddy ransoms.
"In my crew, you get family," Maine added, flashing that wide, "trust me" grin.
Rebecca rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Family. It was the same line he'd used on her and Pilar. She hadn't believed him then—after their father disappeared and their world was carved up by vultures, "family" was just a word used by people who wanted to rob you. But Maine had actually stayed. He'd helped them.
"You don't have anywhere else to go, do you?" Maine winked.
Kiwi extinguished her cigarette and reached across the table. Maine gripped her hand, laughing.
Won't regret it, Kiwi thought, her gaze unreadable. In Night City, trust was the fastest way to the morgue. But for now, the money sounded right.
Across the district, the afternoon sun beat down on the pavement of Rancho Coronado. A teenager in a crisp Arasaka Academy uniform emerged from the subway, jogging with a rhythmic, steady stride.
David Martinez didn't take taxis. He didn't have the eddies, and besides, running was the only thing that kept the noise in his head quiet. He ignored the predatory stares of the locals—a kid in an elite corporate uniform was a walking target in the slums of Santo Domingo.
He reached Skyscraper H4 and stepped into the elevator. The doors hissed shut, and a few floors later, they opened to the familiar smell of ozone, stale cooking, and the distant shouting of neighbors. NCPD officers were doing a sweep down the hall, checking IDs.
David reached his door and paused. He heard noise inside.
"Mom? You're home early?"
He stepped inside, kicking off his shoes. A yellow jacket hung on the rack, and his mother's signature yellow boots sat by the door. Gloria Martinez was in the kitchen, her red hair tied back, hunched over the microwave as she heated up various cans of instant food.
"You're back! Quick, help me plate these," Gloria said, turning around. Her face was weary, the lines of exhaustion etched deep around her eyes, but she managed a smile.
"I can cook, Mom. I'm sixteen. You should be resting," David said, moving to help her.
"Today is special," she said, her voice bright. "Someone moved in next door. New neighbors! It's important to make a good impression."
"Why? We barely have enough for us."
"Because when I'm not here, I want someone looking out for you," Gloria said, turning to face him fully. she winked, making a playful peace sign next to her cheek. "Right, Mr. David Martinez? The boy who never answers my calls?"
David sighed, looking at the extra plates. He didn't care about neighbors. He just wanted his mother to sit down for once.
Little did he know, the man on the other side of that wall had just jumped from the fourteenth floor of a corporate skyscraper—and he was exactly the kind of "good neighbor" the Martinez family was about to need.
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