Cyberpunk: STRAY

Vincent kept his face still, refusing to give Melissa the satisfaction of a reaction. His mind was running through contingencies, exits, diversions—but none of them looked good. She had him. And worse, she knew she had him.

Melissa leaned in, lowering her voice. "You think you're the first kid to try and outplay me? This place doesn't care about you. I don't care about you. What I care about is results. So, I'm gonna make this real simple."

She snapped her fingers. The private booth's heavy metal door behind her creaked open. Two men stepped inside. They weren't muscle-bound goons, nor the cybered-out mercs Vincent expected. They were lean, quiet, efficient.

Professionals.

Vincent's stomach twisted.

Melissa sighed, feigning disappointment. "Y'know, I hoped we could do this clean. Thought maybe you were smart enough to see where this was going. Guess I was wrong."

She gestured, and one of the men stepped forward. Vincent barely had time to react before a solid punch drove into his gut. It wasn't a street-brawler's wild swing—it was calculated, practiced. The kind of punch that made you feel like your organs just rearranged themselves.

Vincent crumpled to his knees, coughing violently. Melissa crouched down next to him, flicking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she murmured. "That's the body reminding you you're still human. Still fragile. Still breakable."

Vincent spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."

Melissa chuckled. "There he is. The little tough guy. See, this is why I do what I do. I love watching people like you realize they're not special."

The second man stepped forward, grabbing Vincent by the hair and yanking his head back. His vision blurred as the first blow struck his cheekbone. Then another. A third. His mind went white with pain.

Melissa waited until Vincent was struggling just to keep his head up before she continued. "Now, let's try this again. Where's Songbird?"

Vincent forced a breath through his bloodied lips. "No idea."

Melissa sighed, shaking her head. "That's unfortunate."

She stood up and nodded to the men. "Break something."

The first man grabbed Vincent's wrist, pulling his arm taut against the floor. The second raised a boot.

Vincent barely had time to scream before the crunch rang through the room.

Pain exploded through his forearm. His vision swam. He gasped, barely holding onto consciousness, bile rising in his throat.

Melissa crouched down again, gripping his broken wrist, twisting it ever so slightly. Vincent choked on a scream. "That was just one," she murmured. "We got plenty more to go. You ready to talk yet?"

Vincent's breath came in ragged, pained gasps. He knew what she was doing—breaking him, wearing him down, making him desperate enough to say anything just to make it stop. But he also knew the moment he gave her what she wanted, she wouldn't need him anymore.

Which meant he was dead either way.

"I don't know where she is," Vincent hissed through clenched teeth.

Melissa studied him. Then, without breaking eye contact, she stood and stomped on his already shattered wrist. Vincent howled, the pain blotting out all thought.

She waited for his screaming to die down before speaking. "That's a shame. Because if you don't know where she is… then you're useless to me."

Vincent's vision darkened at the edges. He felt himself slipping, body failing him. But through the haze of agony, he realized something.

Melissa wasn't bluffing.

If he didn't give her something, he wouldn't be leaving this room.

Night City didn't believe in redemption.

And neither did she.

Vincent's fingers twitched slightly as he sized up the situation. The private booth in Afterlife was soundproof, discreet—meant for high-stakes deals, not desperate last-ditch escapes. The neon glow outside barely seeped through the one-way glass, turning the space into a dark cage. And Melissa? She was the warden.

He had to think fast.

"You're wasting your time," Vincent said, leaning back slightly, forcing himself into a facade of calm. "Even if I knew where Songbird was, you really think I'd just hand her over?"

Melissa sighed, stretching her arms like a cat that had already caught its prey. "See, this is the part where you're supposed to start begging, not bluffing. But I like that about you, kid. You got guts. Pity it's gonna get you killed."

Vincent forced himself to meet her gaze. He had bluffed his way out of worse situations, always betting that the person across from him had a line they wouldn't cross. But Melissa?

She had none.

"So this is how it is?" Vincent asked. "You don't get what you want, so you just start breaking bones? Thought you FIA types were supposed to be a little more... subtle."

Melissa grinned. "Subtlety is for people with time. I don't have that luxury."

She reached into her jacket, and this time it wasn't a holo. Vincent flinched on instinct, but before he could react, something cold and sharp dug into the soft flesh of his left hand. A knife—small, precise, the kind used for cutting tendons, not throats. Blood welled up instantly, and he hissed through his teeth.

"You think you're untouchable," Melissa said, pressing the tip deeper, right between his fingers. "Smart kid like you? You should know better. Everyone breaks. The only question is how long it takes."

Vincent's breath was uneven now, not from pain, but from the realization creeping in.

He wasn't going to talk his way out of this.

His mind raced through options. Could he stall? No—Melissa had already decided he was disposable. Could he fight? Even worse odds, he knows he can't fight for shit. The room was too small, and she was too damn fast. His best chance was outmaneuvering her. But how?

Melissa saw it. The gears turning. The desperation hiding behind his glare. She smirked and twisted the knife ever so slightly.

"I can see you scheming, Vincent. Thinking there's an angle here. But let me save you the trouble. You don't have one."

Vincent swallowed hard. His heartbeat pounded against his skull.

Melissa leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear. "You know what makes you different from the other rats in this city? They know when they're beaten. You? You still think you got a way out."

Vincent bit down on his lip, ignoring the burning pain in his hand.

Then, he did the only thing he could.

He moved.

A violent jerk of his arm sent the knife scraping sideways, cutting a deep gash across his palm as he twisted away. Blood splattered across the table as he lunged, aiming for her wrist, trying to disarm her—

But Melissa was already ahead of him.

She caught his wrist mid-motion, twisted, and slammed him face-first against the metal table. His vision blurred as pain shot through his skull, the weight of her knee digging into his back, pinning him like an insect under glass.

"Cute," she mused, wrenching his arm at a brutal angle. "But dumb."

Vincent gritted his teeth, struggling, but it was useless. He wasn't stronger. He wasn't faster. He had lost before the fight even began.

Melissa pressed down harder. "See, you think you're a survivor, Vincent. But all I see is a kid who doesn't know when to give up."

His breathing was ragged now. His left hand was useless, a throbbing mess of pain, and the pressure against his spine made it impossible to move. Melissa had him.

"Last chance," she whispered. "Where. Is. Songbird?"

Vincent's lips parted, a shallow, broken laugh escaping.

Melissa frowned. "Something funny?"

Vincent coughed, tasting blood. "You think I'm scared of dying?" he rasped. "Lady... if you knew the shit I've been through..." He forced a grin through the pain. "You'd know death isn't the worst thing that can happen to me." That was indeed a bluff, inside his heart rate going up rapidly and he's scared..

Melissa stared at him for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head. "See, that's where you're wrong."

She pulled out her pistol and pressed it to his kneecap.

Vincent's breath hitched.

"I'm gonna count to three," Melissa said, her voice casual. "And you're gonna decide real fast whether you wanna walk out of here or crawl."

Vincent felt his body tense, every instinct screaming at him. He had no moves left. No bluffs. No angles.

And the worst part?

Melissa knew it too.

"One," she said, cocking the gun.

Vincent clenched his jaw.

"Two."

Sweat dripped down his temple.

"Thr—"

A loud crash erupted outside the booth.

Melissa paused, gun still pressed against Vincent's leg, as the sound of raised voices and gunfire echoed through the club. A distraction. Something big.

Vincent didn't know what was happening, but he didn't care.

Because right now?

It was his only chance.

Vincent's mind raced. The reality of the situation settled in, cold and undeniable—Melissa had him. She had outmaneuvered him in a way no one had before, reading him like a book, closing every escape route before he even saw them.

But if he couldn't run, he could still play the game.

His heart pounded in his chest as he leaned back into the booth, posture loosening just enough to feign control. The low neon glow of Afterlife's private lounge cast long shadows across Melissa's face, highlighting the smirk that hadn't left her lips since the moment she cornered him.

"Fine," Vincent exhaled, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable. "I'll play along. You want Songbird, I want out of this alive. Seems fair, yeah?"

Melissa tilted her head, studying him. "You make it sound like you have a choice, kid."

Vincent chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "If you thought you could rip the answer out of me, you wouldn't be talking. Torture's messy. You're not here to waste time—you're here because you need me."

A flicker of amusement crossed her features, but her eyes remained cold. "Go on."

"Simple," Vincent said. "I lead you to Songbird. I get you close enough to make a move. In return, I walk."

Melissa leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table between them. "That's a real big promise from a rat who's running out of holes to hide in."

Vincent didn't flinch. He had already started spinning his web, and he couldn't afford to show any weakness now. "You want results, right? Not just some half-baked lead that goes nowhere? Then you need someone who understands how she moves. Someone who's been in the same rooms as her." (He've never met song bird and lied straight to her face)

Melissa exhaled through her nose, drumming her fingers against the metal tabletop. "And you just happen to be that someone?"

"Call it circumstance," Vincent said, giving her the smallest, calculated smirk. "I didn't even know what I had until you spelled it out for me."

Melissa's eyes narrowed, but she didn't dismiss him outright. That was his opening. He needed to keep her leaning just enough to buy time.

"So what's the plan?" she asked, voice flat but laced with skepticism.

Vincent leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if to sell the illusion further. "She's careful, but not perfect. If she's still in the city, she'll have limited options for laying low. I know how she thinks. I can help track her without making her spook and disappear."

Melissa studied him for a long moment, her gaze dissecting every inch of his expression. Then, without warning, she reached forward and grabbed his wrist, twisting it just enough to make him wince.

"You think I don't see through you?" she said, voice dangerously low. "You think I don't know you're scheming already?"

Vincent gritted his teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. "I'm just trying to survive."

Melissa held his wrist a second longer before releasing it. "Smart. But not smart enough."

She leaned back, cracking her neck. "Fine. We'll play it your way—until you outlive your usefulness."

Vincent forced a tight-lipped smile. He had bought himself time. Not much, but enough.

He just had to figure out what the hell to do with it before Melissa decided to cash him out.