The road back to Militech headquarters was long, and quiet.
Inside the armored vehicle, the soft hum of the engine filled the silence between two people—Meredith Stout, and her driver, a loyal subordinate who'd been dying to speak for the last thirty minutes.
"Out with it," Meredith said without looking up. Her tone was as sharp as ever, but there was a certain fatigue under it.
The driver hesitated, then blurted, "Ma'am, I… I just don't understand. Why didn't you order your men to take him down? That man was clearly lying."
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, voice gaining confidence as he went on. "Royce—the new Maelstrom boss—was maimed by him. He obviously has the Flathead. And on top of that, he stole your eddie chip! That's theft, ma'am. Straight-up robbery!"
Meredith exhaled, eyes on the blur of neon through the window.
"So that's how you see it," she murmured. "He lied to me, refused to return the Flathead, and pocketed my money."
The driver nodded quickly. "Exactly, ma'am."
"Then let me tell you something," she said, turning to him. Her icy blue eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "You're right. Every word of that is true."
The driver blinked. "Wait, what?"
Meredith smirked faintly, crossing her legs. "But what I did… was also right."
She leaned back in her seat, the glow of passing streetlights painting fleeting gold lines across her sharp features. "Of course I know he has the Flathead. Of course I know he's not giving back the chip. Hell, before I left, I even removed the withdrawal lock on that account myself."
"Ma'am… you what?"
"Because he earned it," she said simply. "Because he's strong."
The driver swallowed hard.
"Say it three times," she continued. "Maelstrom. Maelstrom. Maelstrom."
He did. The name hung heavy in the air.
"Now think about it," Meredith said quietly. "They're one of the most deranged, most dangerous gangs in all of Night City. Every corp hates them. Every fixer avoids them. And yet… that entire gang was wiped out. In their own headquarters."
She turned her head toward him, her tone flat, factual. "Their boss, Royce, was turned into a torso. No arms, no legs. Just a screaming meat pile. Tell me, who else in this city could've done that?"
Her driver had no answer.
"In Night City," Meredith said, "power isn't just the law—it is the law. And that man is strong enough to make his own."
The car fell silent again, save for the hum of the wheels cutting through rain-slick asphalt.
"Now," Meredith said finally, closing her eyes. "Drive. No more questions."
"Yes, ma'am."
…
Night City – The Afterlife
There's only one road that truly matters in this city. The road to Afterlife.
Cross that threshold, and the city opens itself to you.
Afterlife wasn't just a bar. It was the cathedral of mercenaries. The greatest fixers, killers, and cybered legends all drank here. Contracts worth millions of eddies were made between toasts. Deals that changed Night City itself were signed in its back booths.
To drink at Afterlife, money wasn't enough. You needed a name.
Inside, the drinks were legendary—each one named after a dead merc whose story had become myth. And upstairs sat the living myth herself: Rogue Amendiares, the Queen of Afterlife.
Neo arrived just as night swallowed the skyline, the neon of Watson pulsing like a living vein.
Outside the bar, the street was crowded with gangers, joytoys, and wannabe mercs—low-level punks too broke or too irrelevant to be allowed inside.
Still, they lingered, as if standing near Afterlife's door was enough to make them feel important.
"Hey, choom!"
A voice called out. Neo turned to see a blond punk with a chrome jaw swaggering his way over, followed by three equally scrappy friends.
"First time here, yeah? You look new."
Neo didn't bother denying it. "Yeah. First time."
The blond grinned. "Heh. We've got a bet going that you're not getting past that door. No offense, man, but you don't exactly look like someone important."
Neo smiled faintly. "Tell me, then—what does someone important look like?"
The punk paused, thrown off. "I dunno. Like Johnny Silverhand, maybe? Or Morgan Blackhand? Or hell, even that Arasaka dog Adam Smasher—all chrome and muscle."
Neo's smile widened. "So, a legend's face has to be carved with the word 'legend' for people like you to notice, huh?"
That hit the punk square in the pride. "Whoa, you got a mouth on you. You just call Adam Smasher a dog? You're insane."
Neo said nothing more. He simply turned and started toward the door.
The punks, curiosity burning hotter than pride, followed close behind.
…
At the entrance stood a mountain of a man: Emmerick, the bouncer—built like a tank, with a gaze that could crush glass.
He crossed his arms. "Name."
"Neo," Neo replied calmly.
Emmerick raised a brow. "That supposed to mean something to me?"
"It will," Neo said. "Tell Dexter DeShawn I'm here. Give him three minutes to meet me at the door."
Emmerick let out a booming laugh. "Three minutes? For Dexter DeShawn? You've got balls, I'll give you that."
He tapped his comm and muttered, "Yo, Dex—got a guy here says his name's Neo. Giving you three minutes."
The line went silent for a second. Then—click. The call ended.
Before anyone could process it, the heavy doors of Afterlife swung open, and out stepped Dexter DeShawn himself—his cigar glowing, his gold rings catching the light.
"Evening, Mr. Neo," Dex said with that trademark grin. "About damn time. I've been waiting for you."
The punks froze, jaws slack.
Neo glanced at Emmerick, then over his shoulder at the group that had followed him.
"This," he said simply, "is my name."
He started walking again, past Dex, through the doors of Afterlife.
"My name," he said over his shoulder, "is going to echo through Night City."
The punks could only stare, stunned into silence, as Dex followed behind him.
…
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. Music thumped low. Neon lights rippled over chrome and skin.
Mercs, fixers, legends—all turned their heads when they saw Dexter DeShawn walking behind someone.
That had never happened before.
Whispers spread fast. Who was he? What kind of man made Dex step aside?
Upstairs, in the VIP lounge, Rogue Amendiares watched from her leather couch, a glass of Johnny Silverhand in hand. The amber liquid glimmered under the bar lights.
Through it, she watched the newcomer's silhouette.
She smiled faintly. "Heh."
"Well now," Rogue murmured. "Looks like Afterlife's got itself a new ghost."