He leaned against the counter, staring at the steam curling from his mug, his reflection fractured in the chrome. The quiet felt… alien. Not unwelcome, but foreign — like stepping into someone else's life and pretending it fit.
"Mary," he said after a moment, voice low. "What's the chatter on the street? Any word about the 'incident'?"
"Just speculation," she replied. "A few data brokers are trading scraps about an energy surge. Some think it was a malfunctioning Militech prototype. A few conspiracy threads think it was a rogue net-runner trying to hijack an orbital relay."
He smirked faintly. "So, nobody has a clue."
"Exactly how you wanted it."
He finished his coffee, the taste lingering metallic on his tongue, then set the cup down and walked back toward the living area. The panoramic window shifted tint as he approached, dimming slightly against the glare of simulated sunlight.
Night City was awake now. Skyways thrummed with traffic, maglevs slicing through the haze like silver veins. Far below, the sprawl churned — markets opening, gangs claiming corners, corpos in chrome suits descending from towers like gods among ants.
It was beautiful, in that sterile, tragic way only Night City could be.
Mary's voice softened slightly. "You know, if you wanted… you could just disappear. I could bury every record of your existence. Max could vanish for good."
Max's reflection in the glass tilted its head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Tempting. But ghosts don't stay buried long. Not here."
He turned away, walking toward the console table by the wall. A sleek holo-screen shimmered to life at his gesture, lines of data streaming across — city maps, communication nodes, encrypted net feeds.
"Still," he murmured, "doesn't hurt to keep an eye on things. Pull up anything connected to Militech's Northside operations. If they're cleaning up, they're hiding something."
"Already scanning," Mary replied, her tone shifting to that sharp, professional edge he'd grown used to. "Give me twenty minutes to peel back their encryption. You'll have a full overview."
"Good," he said, adjusting his robe and setting the whiskey glass aside. "While you do that, queue me some clean clothes. Something that doesn't scream 'runaway experiment.'"
"Noted," she replied. "Would you like the 'innocent tech consultant' look or the 'mercenary with taste' aesthetic?"
He chuckled, walking toward the wardrobe. "Let's split the difference."
The wall slid open, revealing rows of sleek outfits — dark coats, tailored shirts, adaptive fabric pants that could pass for either business wear or tactical gear. He chose something simple: black-on-gray, unbranded, efficient.
As he dressed, Mary continued, "You know, Max, it's funny. You've spent years tearing down corps, raiding facilities, breaking systems… and now you're wearing their clothes, living in one of their towers."
"Yeah," he said, fastening his wrist rig. "Guess irony's just another part of the job description."
He moved to the mirror again — the suite's sensors adjusting the light to match his skin tone, automatically smoothing imperfections, projecting an image of quiet control. He didn't recognize the man looking back at him. Not completely.
Maybe that was a good thing.
"Mary," he said, glancing at the data feed flickering across the glass. "When you're done digging into Militech, run a background check on Charter Hill's building management. If they're linked to any shell corps, I want to know who's really footing the bill."
"Already working on it," she replied. "But you might want to eat something while you wait. Your metabolic readouts suggest you've been running on caffeine and spite."
He smiled faintly. "Don't knock a winning formula."
Still, he moved to the kitchen and grabbed one of the sealed protein packs, peeling it open as he walked. The taste was bland, but the quiet efficiency of it — eat, plan, move — grounded him. It was habit.
Minutes later, Mary's voice returned, crisp. "Encryption broken. You were right — Militech's not just cleaning up. They're diverting resources to a private security wing. Black ops, no official designation. My guess? Containment or recovery."
"Recovery," Max repeated, tossing the empty packet aside. "Which means they think something survived."
"Someone," she corrected softly.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing toward the skyline. The storm clouds were returning — heavy, bruised, rolling in from the industrial sectors. The city dimmed beneath their weight, lights flickering to life even in daylight.
"Mary," he said, his tone hardening. "Trace their funding streams. I want to know who's paying for this ghost hunt. If they're still digging… they'll lead us right to what they're afraid of."
"Understood," she said. "And Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Try to enjoy this Vacation atleast"
He smiled without humor, slipping on his coat. "hahaha, sure"
As he walked toward the door, the suite dimmed behind him — lights fading, systems powering down, like the place itself knew he didn't belong there for long.
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, his reflection split between glass and chrome.
Another ghost disappearing into the veins of Night City.
The elevator hummed softly as it descended, the glass walls revealing the city's sprawl like a living circuit board — arteries of neon, pulses of blue and red crawling through concrete veins.
Max watched it all in silence, his reflection hovering ghostlike beside the shifting panorama.
"Mary," he said quietly, "mark every Militech convoy leaving Northside in the last forty-eight hours. I want routes, cargo manifests, and drivers."
"Running predictive trace," she replied. "Also — small anomaly on the city grid. A data spike near District 12. Someone's trying very hard to look invisible."
He smirked. "So am I. Let's see who does it better."
The elevator slowed to a stop, doors hissing open into the lobby. The place was sterile perfection — mirrored walls, automated reception drones, and a scattering of corpo execs in glassy suits pretending not to notice one another.
Max adjusted his coat, slipped his hands into his pockets, and walked straight through the security field.
The sensors flared briefly — then died with a quiet bzzt as Mary injected false clearance data into the system.
"Still got it," she murmured.
"Never doubted you," Max replied, stepping out into the wet shimmer of the street.
***
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