The Afterlife, gathering place for the elite mercs and fixers, still smelled faintly of ozone and fresh varnish. Today it was getting a facelift, like a ripperdoc-style upgrade—same functionality, better performance.
The hanging screens slumbered in standby mode, and the speaker wiring was being reconnected for yet another night—one more night for those who live the day and not for tomorrow, to blow off some steam. The synthetic liquor bottles were clean, aligned, but no longer seemed all that appealing.
Everything was ready—except for the final loose end: the beverage supply contract.
Rogue leaned her elbows on the bar, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips and the face of someone who's buried more legends than she's drunk.
Oh, so true...
"Naturtal&Co, huh..." She had been digging into the company ever since one of her underlings tipped her off—he'd even managed to snag a bottle of the doc's wine so she could sample it without the doc noticing. "Let's see if they're smart enough to know which battles to fight and when to lower their heads."
The aftertaste of real liquor still lingered on her tongue.
"Though I wouldn't mind stomping them a couple of times. Corps always need a little demonstration to shut their mouths."
They should know it was a privilege to have their drinks served at her bar. She was doing them a huge favor. Mercs and fixers would know their brand because of her—that kind of exposure and recognition was priceless!
And they still expected money from her?
No. Not a chance.
They should realize she was offering them a toast—and now it was their turn to show up. Or else...
What Rogue didn't know was that someone had already decided there would be no toast this time.
In a far corner of the basement, where drinks were still stored inside chambers that once held corpses, a root emerged from the concrete and spiraled upward—thin, dark, almost liquid. Its sensitive tips probed the surroundings with care. Once it confirmed no one was present, it rose and widened.
From the root, Faelan emerged silently, scanning the basement to ensure no active cameras needed neutralizing. In fact, judging by the mounts and cables along the walls, there had been cameras at some point, but they had likely been removed later.
Made sense. The place had become a giant fridge with only one access point, and the cams had probably been moved to the bar area to cut costs.
Who'd go to such trouble to steal synthetic booze, anyway? No one.
It wasn't the first time he'd used Night City's underbelly as his personal artery, but the Afterlife was a bit beyond his usual reach—he'd had to craft a specific route to get here.
"I'd say it's not personal, Rogue... but I'd be lying," he muttered to himself as the root beneath him opened like a flower, revealing an object within.
"But extorting an honest company with no ties to a megacorp, and doing it just to feed your ego... You've lost your touch. Silverhand would be laughing at you."
He pulled from the flower a matte black titanium cylinder, a word etched along its side: VALKYRIA‑9. A whisper of extinction, packed into something the size of a half-liter thermos—courtesy of Galina's old contacts.
To be precise, it was a Nordic Synchrony Bomb.
A bio-circuit disruptor via targeted resonance, with a primary charge labeled (Nebula K‑β)—a nano-aerosol fluid activated by a sonic pulse. A relic. No longer in production.
He twisted the device's neck, and a barely audible beep confirmed it was armed.
He looked up, past the ceiling, toward where the staff bathroom had remained unused all day. Maybe Rogue had remodeled the place, but the core structure was still the same old funeral home—and those blueprints were still online.
The root ascended to the basement ceiling and cracked open a new fissure—right behind the restroom unit. With a flick of his hand, the bomb was slowly embedded, fitted like a stone in a concrete tomb.
The floor sealed shut as the root withdrew—no marks, no cracks, no clues, no mistakes.
Faelan checked the time on his Pip-Boy and retreated as silently as he'd arrived.
Above, Rogue stepped out the side entrance to light her cigarette—but the lighter failed once, then again. She cursed under her breath.
"This old piece of shit barely works anymore!"
Still, despite the grumbling, she had no intention of replacing the old lighter—it held meaning.
The air outside tasted like sweat and rusted metal, but it was a rare moment of peace. No hitmen, no sycophants, no clients. Just her, her cigarette, and Night City.
"Son of a bitch..." she muttered as the flame finally lit, and she drew in the smoke she so desperately needed.
Behind her, the Afterlife glowed faintly—lifeless, waiting for its next grand opening. Or maybe... silent, like an amphitheater before a tragedy.
Then it happened.
A sub-bass whisper. Barely an intestinal hum—something felt more than heard. The very second Rogue took her first drag… everything inside the bar died.
It wasn't the cinematic kind of explosion.
There was no fire. No flying glass. No shrapnel.
It was as if the soul of the place had been sucked into a perfect void.
Every internal light died at once—and would never turn back on.
The monitors and datachips scattered throughout the bar fried silently, their circuits boiled from the inside.
The bottles creaked and cracked without breaking. That the synthetic liquor didn't spill was nothing short of a miracle.
The walls shuddered but held. Faelan and his people may have wanted revenge on the Afterlife, but they hadn't forgotten that above this block lived families—innocent of Rogue's sins. Otherwise, a standard explosive would've been far easier.
The tables softened at their joints, and the air turned milky as the ventilation systems collapsed with a strangled moan.
Network devices sparked one last blue flicker... and died.
Rogue spun around, smoke still in her mouth.
"What the fuck?" she exhaled, cursing again as the cigarette she'd fought so hard to light dropped from her lips to the ground.
She knew the moment she tried the door—it didn't open automatically.
She pushed. Nothing.
The security latch didn't respond—not because it was stuck, but because it no longer existed as a functioning mechanism. When she finally forced it open with a well-placed kick, the sight hit her like a gravestone.
Or rather—the absence of sight.
The lights wouldn't come on. She had to rely on her optic night vision to scan the surroundings.
Her grand reopening of a remodeled Afterlife… would never happen.
The place was fried. Completely ruined. Even "dead" wouldn't be an exaggeration.
At first glance, and conservatively speaking, it would take weeks to replace everything.
Screens, machines, furniture...
The bar couldn't serve drinks—nothing electronic had survived. The stock of fake liquor had coagulated from the local heat inside cracked bottles. The audio lines were fried.
It was still her temple of power... but now it was a temple in ruins.
And rebuilding the Afterlife? It would cost a small fortune, but she had to do it anyway. Her prestige was tied to this place, whether she liked it or not.
"Looks like someone's playing way out of their league," Rogue said acidly, scanning the room for any trace of the attacker.
"I need to find out who the fuck thinks they can pull tricks on me!" She was about to make some calls to deal with it, when a voice came from behind.
A woman entered, stepping cautiously as she looked over the state of the bar.
"Hello?" she greeted, a little intimidated by Rogue's presence.
"And you are?" Rogue wasn't in the mood for visitors.
"I'm Dorio, Natural&Co sent me to discuss the matter of… the… beverages..." Dorio's words slowed down as she took in the damage around her, looking "genuinely" confused.
"Uh, bad time?" she asked.
"Yes," Rogue growled, jaw clenched.
Great, now word was going to spread in minutes.
"Okay then..." Dorio stepped back slowly. "Well, uh, we'll just wait until, you know..." she gestured vaguely at the ruined bar. She turned around and bolted.
Watching Dorio flee did improve Rogue's mood slightly.
"Oh, those guys," she muttered belatedly, looking around. "Yeah, I think I'll postpone that meeting for now," she said with disdain, already forgetting the drink reps.
She never even considered Dorio might be involved. Her mind only ran through a short list of past rivals, the kind of people capable of sneaking a device like this into her place without setting off a single alarm.
Meanwhile, once Dorio was far enough away, she made sure she wasn't being followed and leaned against a wall covered in graffiti. Her optics blinked as she made a call.
[Dorio, how was the performance?]
[Kiwi! Faelan did a perfect job. The old bat's furious, and she doesn't suspect a thing.]
[Perfect. I'm sending you an address. Head there once you've rested a bit.]
Dorio checked the address and raised an eyebrow.
[Uh… isn't that a little too close to the Afterlife?]
[Yes. I'll send you the details in a minute.]
Dorio scratched her neck, turning back the way she came to head for her new destination.
What Rogue didn't know was that during the Afterlife's downtime, just a month later, a bar called Rebirth would steal away much of her regular clientele once word got out they served real alcohol.
Even the Afterlife's bartender jumped ship, lured by the dream of finally making actual cocktails.
The entry requirement?
Similar to the Afterlife—you needed a certain level to get in—but with one extra twist: you had to own an implant with amber inlays.
No amber, no service.
Before anyone realized it, amber would slowly start gaining ground as a status symbol.
And if anyone wanted it, there was only one place to get those implants...