Cyberpunk: STRAY

Westbrook, Japan Town, Night City

The city was loud as usual, but Vincent felt nothing.

Jago was dead. His plan had worked. Arasaka bought the lie. Ito Sakamoto thought he had gotten what he wanted, and Dogtown was back in chaos, just as Vincent intended. But standing at the edge of it all, watching the embers of a city always on fire, he felt—nothing.

No satisfaction. No relief. Just exhaustion.

Aurore hadn't checked up on him. Not once.

Not surprising. She had backed out before the plan went into motion, made it clear she wanted nothing to do with the aftermath. And Vincent understood. He never expected her to stay. It wasn't in her nature. She had seen what he was turning into—what he had to turn into—and walked away before it swallowed her too.

Smart.

He respected her for it. But it didn't make it hurt any less.

For the first time since coming to Night City, Vincent felt... alone. Really alone.

He drifted through the streets without purpose, ignoring the flickering neon signs, the drunken mercs celebrating another bloodstained payday, the dealers whispering promises of oblivion in pill form.

His mind should've been racing, plotting his next move. He had to think ahead—Ito Sakamoto would come back eventually, and the FIA was already sniffing around. The lie wouldn't hold forever. He should've been preparing.

Instead, he found himself at Lizzie's.

Not because he wanted to be there. Not because it was safe. But because he had nowhere else to go.

Lizzie's Bar – A First for Everything

Rita noticed the moment he walked back into the bar again after their previous conversation.

She always did.

Vincent didn't blend in well, not in a place like this. He wasn't like the other regulars—the mercs drowning guilt in whiskey, the joytoys taking a break between clients, the corpos slumming it in a dive bar that pretended to be more than it was.

But tonight, he looked worse.

She didn't need to be a genius to see it.

"Christ, Vincent." Rita ditched her pose and left it to another bouncher, came up to the counter, and leaned against it, arms crossed, giving him a once-over. "You look like shit chico."

Vincent didn't argue. Didn't deflect with his usual dry wit. He just sat down at the bar, staring at nothing.

Rita's frown deepened. That wasn't normal.

She grabbed a bottle, poured him another drink after he'd just finished his cheap bourbon, and slid it over without a word.

Vincent stared at it.

He never really drank. Too risky. He needed his mind sharp, needed control. Alcohol dulled the senses, made people reckless. He had spent his life staying three steps ahead, and drinking would only slow him down.

But right now?

He didn't care.

He picked up the glass and took a slow sip. The burn was sharp, still unfamiliar. He coughed. Rita snorted.

"First time?" she asked.

Vincent nodded, swallowing against the bitterness. "Yeah. never drank anything this strong other than a small bottle of bourbon anyway.. what even is this?"

She didn't tease him. Didn't answered whatever was that. Didn't ask why. Just poured him another.

They sat in silence for a while.

Vincent wanted to say something. Maybe about Jago. Maybe about Aurore. Maybe about how, for all his intellect, for all his plans and strategies, he still felt like a fucking idiot when it came to people.

But he didn't.

Because for once, there was nothing to say.

The second glass went down smoother. Not because Vincent liked the taste, but because the burn was familiar now, predictable.

Rita didn't say much. Just stood behind the bar, idly cleaning a glass with the half-hearted effort of someone who didn't actually need to do it. The music pounded in the background, synth-heavy and hollow, but here, in this little corner of the bar, it felt distant. Like the rest of the world was moving, and Vincent was just… stuck.

"Hey so how's things with that hot chick you were with the other week?" Rita finally asked, keeping her tone casual. She didn't pry. She never did.

Vincent swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at it like it held answers. It didn't.

"I got a man killed," he said, voice flat.

Rita arched an eyebrow. "And?"

Vincent exhaled through his nose. Of course she wasn't shocked. This was Night City—people died every hour, every minute. You didn't survive here without getting some blood on your hands.

But this wasn't just some guy.

"I set him up. Played him. Lied to him. And he died thinking he won." Vincent shook his head. "And now I don't know if I did the right thing."

Rita snorted. "Newsflash, genius: 'right' and 'wrong' don't mean shit in this city. You know that."

Vincent did know that. He'd known it since he first set foot in Dogtown, since the first time he saw a body crumpled in an alley and people just stepped over it like trash. But knowing something and feeling it were two different things.

"I thought it would feel different," he admitted, voice quieter. "Thought I'd feel… relieved. Like I won."

Rita sighed, setting the glass down. "Lemme guess. You feel like shit instead?"

Vincent nodded.

She exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Look, Vincent. You're smart. Smarter than most idiots in this city, that's for sure. But lemme tell you something real important." She leaned forward, resting her arms on the counter. "That brain of yours? It's not gonna save you from feelin' human."

Vincent blinked, caught off guard.

Rita didn't do this. She wasn't the type to get sentimental. She liked people about as much as a stray dog liked a leash—tolerated them when necessary, snapped when they got too close.

So why was she…?

"Well it's preem, Rita. I'm fine. " The words came out instinctively, automatic, like muscle memory.

She rolled her eyes. "No, you're not."

Vincent's grip tightened around the glass. He should've expected that. Rita wasn't the type to let him bullshit his way out of things.

"You think I don't see it?" she continued, gesturing at him. "You ain't eatin' right. You ain't sleepin' right. You're just—drifting. You barely even talk to people anymore. And don't gimme that 'I don't need people' crap, 'cause if that was true, you wouldn't be sittin' at my bar, brought a cheap ass bottle here, drinkin' for the first damn time in your life."

Vincent opened his mouth to argue. But he didn't. Because she was right.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because if Rita noticed, others would notice. And if others noticed, that meant he was slipping. Getting sloppy. Vulnerable.

He hated feeling vulnerable.

But at the same time…

He was tired.

Tired of always being the one who had to stay three steps ahead. Tired of looking at everyone like they were pieces on a board. Tired of pretending it didn't get to him.

So, for the first time in a long time, he didn't argue. Didn't deflect.

Instead, he looked at Rita—really looked at her.

"You ever feel like you lost something, but you don't even know what it was?" he asked, voice quieter than before.

Rita's expression shifted, just slightly. A flicker of something he couldn't quite place.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Yeah, I do."

Vincent let out a breath, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Then what the fuck do you do?"

Rita was quiet for a moment. Then, she reached for the bottle, poured them both another glass.

"You drink," she said, sliding it over. "And you keep going."

Vincent stared at the glass.

"You're a bad influence, Rita.."

Maybe it wasn't the best answer. Maybe it wasn't even the right answer.

But right now, it was enough..

Luxor Heights, Dogtown

The air in Dogtown always smelled like rust and burnt oil, but tonight, it was heavier. Thick with the stink of a city cleaning up after a storm of blood.

Melissa stepped over a pile of shattered glass, her sharp eyes scanning the alleyway. Her team was too slow, too blind to see the real story behind Jago's death. But she wasn't.

Vincent Htet had left a mess. Not a sloppy one, but a mess nonetheless.

Jago's death and the rise of the new Colonel Chester Bennett, which meant a lot of eyes were suddenly on Dogtown's now filled power vacuum. The FIA was sniffing around, the NCPD was pretending to care operating outside of dogtown, and Arasaka? They were watching from the shadows, waiting.

She crouched, running a gloved hand over the blood-stained pavement.

There was no such thing as a clean kill in Night City. There were only kills with loose ends, and Vincent's were starting to show.

Melissa exhaled, standing up and adjusting her coat.

She needed to find him. She found a lead, a connection on Songbird and the third party merc V's escape.. 

Before someone else did.

Corpo Plaza, Night City: Aurore Cassel's Resident

Aurore sat at her kitchen counter, staring at the half-empty glass of wine in front of her.

The apartment was too quiet. Too big for just one person.

Her brother's death lingered like cigarette smoke—faint but suffocating. Aymeric had been flat-lined for months now, but the wound hadn't healed. It hadn't even scabbed over.

She turned her wrist, running her fingers over the thin silver bracelet he had given her years ago.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Let go? Move on? Stop Mourning?

How could she?

The city didn't stop. The deals didn't stop. The danger didn't stop.

And yet, here she was.

Stuck.

Frozen in place, while the world moved on without her.

Aurore reached for the glass and took a slow sip, feeling the warmth slide down her throat.

She could still hear his voice.

And she hated how much she missed it.

The glass of wine in Aurore's hand had lost its taste. It had been sitting too long, warmth from her fingers ruining whatever richness it once held. Still, she took another slow sip, as if the alcohol could wash away the heaviness in her chest.

She had been drinking more lately. Not to the point of losing herself, no. She was still too controlled for that. Too aware. Too calculating. But the solitude of her high-rise apartment, once a luxury, had become suffocating. And drinking dulled the edges.

Aurore leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyes flickering to the cityscape beyond the glass walls of her penthouse. The neon haze of Watson was as alive as ever, lights blinking, people moving, the rhythm of Night City never faltering.

It felt distant. Foreign.

She had spent years carving a space for herself in this city, navigating its dangers, learning its language of power and survival. And yet, for the first time, she felt lost.

Aymeric was gone.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the stem of the glass tighter.

Her brother had been many things—reckless, arrogant, infuriatingly stubborn, stoic, weird habbits—but he had been hers. Family in a city that devoured bonds like a starving beast. No one else understood what they had built together. The deals they made, the trust they shared, the way they covered for each other's mistakes.

Now it was just her.

And Aurore was tired.

The death of Jago had only added to the weight pressing down on her. She had distanced herself from Vincent, from the mess that followed him, but even from afar, she could feel the ripples. The city was shifting, adjusting to the power vacuum.

Vincent had done something.

Something big.

She knew him well enough to recognize his hand in the chaos. And yet, for all his brilliance, she could also see the cracks forming. He was playing too high, too fast. Making enemies out of people who didn't forget.

Aurore rubbed her temples.

She could have warned him. Could have told him to slow down, to think, to stop before he ended up buried under the weight of his own ambition.

But she hadn't.

Because she was tired.

Because she wasn't his keeper.

Because every time she looked at him, she saw a reflection of something she had lost—of the way Aymeric had once thrown himself headfirst into battles too large for him to win.

And she couldn't do it again.

She pushed off the counter, abandoning the half-empty glass on the marble surface. The apartment was cold, but she didn't bother turning up the heat. Instead, she walked toward her bedroom, peeling off the fitted blazer she had been wearing all day.

Aurore paused in front of the mirror, looking at her own reflection.

She didn't look broken.

Her expression was neutral, composed, the way it had always been. But the woman staring back at her felt… hollow.

With a sigh, she reached for the silver bracelet on her wrist—the last piece of Aymeric she had left.

She had built an empire with him. Now, she wasn't sure if she even wanted it anymore.

Aurore let her head drop forward, closing her eyes.

Tomorrow, she would be fine. Tomorrow, she would keep moving. Tomorrow, she would bury all of this beneath layers of wit and steel.

But tonight, she let herself grieve..