"You two chat. I have to see how Judy's holding up with that latest shipment."
Susan didn't wait for an answer. She stood abruptly, tossing a final, sharp glare at Jax that could have pierced reinforced glass. Jax didn't flinch; he met her eyes with a defiant heat of his own. Let her stare, he thought. I'm not the one who's afraid of a little friction.
"Alright, Jax, ease up," Kolina said, her voice a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "You two are like live wires touching."
"She started it," Jax grunted, watching Susan's retreating back. "Whenever she needs something done—like pulling those girls out of Japantown last month—she's all honey and sweet-talk. Now that I'm 'trouble,' I'm just a rat in her basement."
"She's the head of a gang in the middle of a territory war, Jax. Try to understand. We're family, even when we're screaming at each other." Kolina patted his shoulder, her smile fading into something more professional. "But enough of that. Time to talk business."
She turned to Maine. "I've made the introductions. The rest is between you and him."
Maine sat up, his massive frame shifting with a predatory grace. The casual vibe disappeared, replaced by the heavy, wild aura of a man who lived on the edge of a cyberpsychotic break. He poured a glass of amber liquid and slid it across the table to Jax.
"Drink up, kid. I apologize for the rough start. Street nerves, you understand."
Jax took a small, cautious sip. The burn was clean—real alcohol, not the synthetic swill from the taps outside. "Skip the pleasantries, Maine. What's the job?"
"Straight to the point. I like that." Maine grinned, though his eyes remained cold. "I've got a lead on some data. We're hitting a Biotechnica facility."
Jax's hand paused mid-air. "Biotechnica? You're looking to pull a tiger's whiskers? That's corporate suicide."
He'd spent five years learning the hard rules of Night City. You can kill a man, you can burn a block, but you don't touch the Corps unless you're ready for the sky to fall on your head.
Kolina remained silent, staring into her glass as if she hadn't heard a word.
"No risk, no reward," Maine shrugged. "The recon is solid. We've been sitting on this for weeks. Besides, if a mercenary isn't messing with the Corps, he's just a thug with an expensive haircut." He gestured with a thumb toward the corner. "You see her? That's Sasha. Our Netrunner. She's a ghost in the machine. She can crack Biotechnica's ICE before their security even finishes their morning coffee."
Jax looked at Sasha. He recognized the name from the fragmented memories of his past life—a face from the credits of a story that hadn't happened yet. In the 2075 he knew, she was a shadow. Here, she was flesh and chrome, her fingers twitching with a nervous, electric energy as she offered a small, hesitant wave.
"She's cute," Jax said, pulling his gaze back to Maine, "but I've lived in a brothel for five years. Pretty faces don't pay the rent. Let's talk eddies."
Maine snapped his fingers. "Fair enough. The contract is worth two hundred and fifty thousand. We split it four ways: you, me, Sasha, and my techie, Pilar. He's out drinking with his sister tonight, but he's the one who vouched for you. Said you were the only 'natural' in Lizzie's who actually knew how to move."
Maine leaned in, lowering his voice. "I'll give you seventy thousand. I'm taking a hit on my end because your role is the lynchpin."
Jax narrowed his eyes. "Seventy thousand? That's a lot of kindness for a man who just met me."
"It's not kindness. It's insurance," Maine countered. "Most guys who are good at ghosting are Netrunners with zero muscle, or agents who charge corporate rates. I need someone who can slip through a vent and still have the strength to snap a neck if things go sideways. You're a Mox—you've got back, and you've got a reason to be scarce right now. It's a perfect fit."
Jax felt the weight of the data shard Susan had given him. Combined with this job, he'd have enough to vanish or upgrade. But more than that, he saw the look in Kolina's eyes. This wasn't just a job; it was an exit strategy.
"I'll take it," Jax said, standing up.
Maine beamed, extending a hand that felt like a vice. "Straightforward. My favorite kind of partner."
"I'll expect the brief via encrypted mail," Jax said, pulling his baseball cap low and zipping his jacket. "I've still got a shift to finish."
He walked out of the booth, leaving the heavy scent of chrome and ambition behind. Outside, the night air hit him like a physical blow—a cocktail of exhaust, rotting trash, and the copper tang of distant violence.
"Done already?"
Rita Wheeler was leaning against the exterior wall of the club, her pink jacket glowing under the neon. She watched him with an unreadable expression.
"Yeah. Kolina found me a way out. Stealing data with a crew of street mercs."
Rita was silent for a long moment. She pulled an e-cigarette from her pocket, took a drag, and offered it to him. The vapor smelled like synthetic peaches—a ghost of a fruit neither of them had ever tasted.
"I don't smoke, Rita. You know that."
"It's fruit-flavored, Jax. Soft. Not like that military-grade shit I gave you last time."
"Pass."
Rita exhaled a cloud of white mist into the oily night air. She looked up at the flickering holograms dancing above the rooftops of Watson.
"So," she whispered. "You finally ended up on this path."
Jax didn't answer. He just stood beside her, his back against the cold concrete of Lizzie's Bar. He watched the scavengers and the lost souls drift by in the neon rain, guarding the door for one last night, knowing that when the sun rose, he wouldn't be a protector anymore.
He'd be a predator.