Pepi points Rebecca upstairs with a chin tilt. The Wild Wolf hums beneath—bass rolling under neon, glasses knocking, oil and citrus riding the air. Up the narrow stairs, the noise thins to a wood-and-whiskey hush. She raps the private-room door once and steps in.
Jack and Rocky look up mid-talk.
Jack rises at once, hands on thighs like a sprinter coming out of blocks. "In that case, I won't bother you. I'll go first. L, you two chat." He claps Rocky's shoulder on the way past and shoots him a look that says I get it.
Rocky answers with an eye roll that lands somewhere between please stop and this is business. He can practically hear the rumor forming in Jack's head.
"Have a nice chat, ladies and gentlemen," Jack tosses over his shoulder, and goes.
Rebecca slides into the chair opposite Rocky, boots hooked on the seat rung, posture loose. "Soda," she says at the doorway. The waiter nods.
"I didn't expect a ripperdoc to moonlight as a middleman," she says, dry smile on. "Alright—what's the commission?"
Rocky doesn't bother with a preamble. He waves the soda in when it arrives, then sets a thin datachip on the table and pushes it across with two fingers. "Details are on the chip. Take a look."
She slots it into her port. The brief unfolds on her overlay: target list, quantities, routes, drop windows, contact protocol, payment ladder.
"So it's a delivery," she says. "Ten thousand euros. Generous."
"Right," Rocky says. "Get the goods to these clinics, collect payment. Straightforward in writing, not in practice."
He lets the next part stand independently: more than a dozen stops scattered across Night City, heavy loads, awkward routes. If he hauls them himself, it burns daily and paints a line straight to his door. Better to put a different profile on the path—build a working tie with Rebecca and muddy any watchful eyes poking at the supply.
The ten thousand is calculated: a fat budget compared with standard courier rates, but small against one batch's margin. He'd rather hand it to someone he picked than a random fixer's roster.
"This kind of job isn't always polite," he adds. "If anyone drags their feet on the money, it comes down to your means."
"When you deliver, they pay," she counters, eyebrow up. "But with me, maybe they try a stunt. Is that what you're saying?"
"That's the risk," he says evenly. "I'm naming it upfront."
"Ha? You looking down on me?" She flips a pink-and-green pistol out of her jacket, snaps a mag check, and twirls it once—not flashy, just confident. "I'll take the commission. I'll bring back every euro."
The grin she throws him is trouble and charm in equal parts. It makes his mouth answer with its own without permission.
"Then happy cooperation," he says.
They clink—her soda to his water—and the deal clicks into place.
"Tomorrow morning," Rocky continues, tapping the chip's map, "meet me at the warehouse marked here. I'll hand over the goods. Try to finish in a day."
"Copy. So—what now?" she asks, sipping. "You said we could talk."
"You," he says.
"Me? Why?"
"I want to know you better. We'll have plenty of chances to work together. I think we can be friends."
She snorts, amused. "Friends? I figured middlemen only care about getting mercs to follow orders."
"I'm not a middleman," he says, with a faint smile. "I'm the employer. I don't know many mercs. I ask people to help me get things done. People who help me are friends."
"Huh." She leans back, assessing him with unhurried eyes. She'd assumed he was a conduit—a fixer's node, not the source. Where's the catch if he hired her cold off a three-day-old clinic vibe and a ten-minute impression?
"You didn't know me before tonight," she says. "But you hand me a commission that big. Are you crazy? Not worried I mess it up—or run with your meds and the cash?"
"Maybe a little," he admits. "But I judge people well." He holds her stare, letting the words carry their own weight. "You read as reliable. I believe you'll handle it."
She doesn't expect "reliable." Not from a stranger in Night City. The word snags and pulls. For a second, she's somewhere else—older voices using it like it belongs to a different world—then she's back, smirking to kill the softness before it shows.
"Alright," she says. "Since you said it like that, I'll do it."
Trust in Night City buys a strange warmth no heater can copy. It also takes a little burden. She feels both, and neither feels bad.
"I'm relieved to hear it," Rocky says. "One condition. The commission's source doesn't leave this room. Not anyone—crew included."
"Odd condition." Her curiosity sharpens. "Why?"
"Because I don't plan to get burned," he says, plain. "Night City's rule of thumb: You can only trust yourself. If you get betrayed, blame yourself."
He doesn't name any crew or time bombs by name; he doesn't have to. She reads plenty behind the line. Crews are families until they aren't. People change. Pressure breaks good welds. It's math.
"Then why trust me?" she asks. "Why am I the exception?"
"Because I still have to do business," he says. "And trust builds step by step. Sincerity for sincerity." He gestures once, unconsciously mimicking Jack's storyteller hands and catching himself. "You'll handle this well. I'll make it worth your while. Then we stack the next brick."
She holds his look a beat longer than needed and shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "Okay, strange guy. I promise."
"Good." He raises his glass. "Cheers. To friendship."
"To friendship," she echoes, tapping the rim to his. She drains the soda and sets it down with a thud. "So we're friends now? That easy?"
"It's Night City," he says. "The guy who just left calls it fate."
"Hmm." She rolls the thought around, tasting it like a new drink. "More friends aren't a bad thing."
Silence settles—the good kind. Outside, the Wild Wolf's floor vibrates faintly under the bass; scooters whine somewhere in Heywood's arteries; a laugh lances up the stairwell and fades. Inside, the table holds a chi, two empty glasses, and something that could be a typical night in a different world.
"Logistics?" she says, business back on the rails. "Vehicle, route, comms?"
"I'll load the crates on-site," he says. "Courier plates. You run the loop solo. No chatter on open bands. If someone tries to tail, call me—no heroics."
She salutes with two fingers. "Yes, boss."
He grimaces. "Don't call me boss."
"Then friend," she says, grinning. "See you in the morning."
She stands, pockets the chip, and pauses at the door. "One more thing," she adds, glancing back. "If anyone gives me trouble on payment, I'll handle it my way."
"I expected nothing less," he says. "Just come back in one piece."
She flashes teeth—half promise, half threat—and ghosts down the stairs into noise and light.
Rocky stays a minute longer, letting the bar's old wood smell fill the room, allowing the shape of the night to settle. Jack's tease, Rebecca's grin, the chip's data—each clicks into its slot. Tomorrow is moving pieces and moving parts. Tonight is a small quiet where one can choose how long to breathe.
He stands, thanks Pepi on the way out, and steps into Heywood's warm dark. The city throws neon against low clouds and dares you to call it a sky. He pulls his jacket close and heads for the bike. Work waits. So does a wager on trust.