Cyberpunk: STRAY

The private booth was dimly lit, its walls lined with expensive faux-wood paneling—a failed attempt to make the place feel more high-class than it really was. The air reeked of cigar smoke and cheap cologne, clashing with the neon glow bleeding through the room's tinted glass.

Jago Szabó sat comfortably in the center of a semicircle couch, legs crossed, a drink in one hand. He exuded the kind of effortless confidence that came from knowing he held the bigger gun, metaphorically and literally. The man was a numbers wizard, an enforcer disguised as an accountant, and Vincent could already see the gears turning in his head the second they walked in.

Jago smiled, all business. "So, Mister Saw...Vincent. The little rat from Jig Jig street... I've heard a lot about you. Heard the Sakas are on your tail eh?"

Vincent slid into a seat opposite him, Aurore standing just behind, arms crossed, still radiating anger. "Hope most of it's good. Ya know? I feel flatterd someone like you know my name."

Jago chuckled. "Good? That depends. Efficient? Now that, I can respect." His cybernetic fingers drummed against the table. "So, let's talk numbers."

Vincent nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. Let's talk number."

Jago leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know how this works, kid. Barghest doesn't do charity. And your… request comes at a price."

Vincent smirked. "I know how the game works. That's why I'm here." He leaned back, exuding the kind of calculated confidence that made people underestimate him. "But let's be real, Jago. You don't actually care about the numbers. You care about the leverage. The way I see it, I'm sitting on something you want more than the eddies themselves."

Jago raised a brow, intrigued but unconvinced. "Oh? Enlighten me."

Vincent steepled his fingers. "What you're offering? It's worth, at best, half of what you're asking. And I'm being generous."

Jago smirked, but his cybernetic eye flickered slightly—an automatic micro-adjustment Vincent caught immediately. He wasn't used to being challenged like this, least of all by some small-time errand boy.

"And what makes you think you can just slash my price in half?" Jago asked, his tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Vincent shrugged. "Because if you don't take my offer, you lose more than just a payday. You lose me."

Jago chuckled, leaning back. "You think you're worth that much?"

Vincent didn't flinch. "I think I'm worth more." He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "See, Jago, I know you're stretched thin right now. Barghest is trying to expand into Night City, but you're not at the top of the food chain here. Yet. You need people like me—people who can work outside the usual channels, get things done without it turning into a bloodbath. And if you price me out? I walk. Simple as that. I can get you that title... Imagine.. Colonel Jago..." He waved his hand across the booth "See...tempting isn't it?"

Jago exhaled through his nose, studying Vincent. "You're a cocky little shit, you know that?"

Vincent grinned. "But I'm right."

The room fell into silence. Aurore, arms still crossed, watched the exchange with a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. She'd seen people try to out-talk fixers before—it usually ended with a bullet in their skull. But Vincent? He was playing a different game.

Jago finally exhaled, shaking his head with an amused chuckle. "Fine. I'll bite. What's your counteroffer?"

Vincent didn't hesitate. "Half your asking price. In clean cash. No strings. No favors owed."

Jago raised an eyebrow. "And why the hell would I agree to that?"

Vincent leaned forward, voice steady. "Because if you do, you get two things: a smooth deal and my continued business. You overcharge me now? You get a quick buck, but you lose the long-term investment. And you're too smart to settle for short-term gains."

Jago's cybernetic fingers tapped against his glass. Another pause. Then, a smirk.

"You're good, kid," he said. "Annoying, but good."

Vincent allowed himself a small smirk. "So we got a deal?"

Jago chuckled, then nodded. "Yeah. We got a deal."

Aurore exhaled quietly, her body language relaxing just slightly. The transaction went through smoothly, Jago's security confirming the creds as they transferred. The moment it was done, Jago gave Vincent a small nod.

"Don't fuck me over, Vincent."

Vincent stood up, stretching. "I wouldn't dare."

Jago just smirked. "Sure. Now get the hell out of my booth."

Vincent turned, Aurore following as they stepped out of the private area. The second they were clear, she let out a slow breath.

"I can't fucking believe that worked," she muttered.

Vincent grinned. "You doubt me way too much."

They left the bar into the cool Watson night, but Vincent already knew they had a problem.

Jig-Jig Street wasn't safe anymore—not with how many people probably wanted him dead. And Aurore? She was still on the run, still had heat on her back so no penthouse for them. They needed a place to lay low.

Aurore sighed. "So, genius, where the hell do we go now?"

Vincent pulled out his holo, already typing a message. "I got a place. Just need a couch for the night."

Aurore raised an eyebrow. "Who the hell's gonna let us crash?"

Vincent smirked. "I know someone.."

Rita Wheeler wasn't exactly thrilled to see them at her door. She heard all of that as they walked out of the bar..

The pink-haired bouncer crossed her arms, cybernetic eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Lemme get this straight—you do biz in my bar, and now you want a fucking slumber party?"

Vincent grinned, shifting his bag over his shoulder. "C'mon, Rita. Just one night. You owe me."

She scoffed. "The fuck I do."

Vincent shrugged. "Alright, fine, but I'll owe you then. And we both know I always pay my debts."

Rita sighed, rubbing her temples. "You're a pain in my ass, Vinne."

"But a charming pain in the ass."

Rita rolled her eyes, but finally, she stepped aside. "One night. You two take the couch. And if either of you touch my shit, I'll kick your asses out so fast you won't even hit the ground."

Vincent smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

As they stepped inside, Aurore shot Vincent a sideways glance. "You really just talk your way through everything, huh?"

Vincent chuckled. "Nah. Sometimes I actually gotta work for it."

Aurore shook her head, muttering, "Fucking unbelievable."

But she followed him in anyway.

The apartment was small—cramped, even. A single-room setup with a stained couch, a flickering holo-screen mounted on the wall, and a kitchen the size of a closet. The place smelled of cheap air freshener barely masking the scent of cigarette smoke and synthetic booze. Rita clearly wasn't the type to waste eddies on comfort.

But what caught Vincent's eye were the sculptures.

Scattered around the room—on shelves, the counter, even the windowsill—were small, handcrafted figures. Some made from scrap metal, others molded from plastic or ceramic. A sleek, chrome Mox logo sat next to a jagged, abstract piece that looked like a screaming face. A few stylized figures stood in dynamic poses, definitely looking like someone spent hours shaping them.

Vincent picked one up—a tiny, armored woman in a fighting stance, made from old bullet casings and wires. He turned it over in his fingers. "Didn't know you were an artist, Rita."

Rita, still leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, shrugged. "Gotta do something with my hands when I'm not breaking noses. Also people sucks, sculptures don't talk."

Aurore, who had barely stepped inside, didn't even glance at the sculptures. Her eyes flicked over the exposed pipes, the water-damaged ceiling, the creaky, secondhand furniture.

It was too familiar.

Vincent watched as her expression shifted—tight jaw, tensed shoulders. He didn't need to ask what was wrong. He already knew.

"Alright, what's up?" he asked.

Aurore exhaled sharply, her fingers gripping her arms. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

She shot him a glare. "Just… fucking drop it."

Vincent didn't. "It's the place, isn't it?"

She clenched her jaw. The dim light cast harsh shadows over her face, highlighting the tension in her features.

"It's just a fucking dump," she muttered. "Who cares?"

Vincent leaned against the wall, still holding the tiny sculpture. "It reminds you of something."

She huffed a bitter laugh. "Yeah, no shit."

Vincent waited. Pushing too hard would make her shut down completely.

Aurore exhaled through her nose, gaze drifting over the peeling wallpaper, the cracked floor tiles. "Prison," she muttered, almost too quiet to hear. "Back in France."

Vincent didn't react, just let the words settle.

"Before I got to NC, before I had money, I spent years in a cell smaller than this fucking place," she continued, voice low. "La Santé" prison ..Metal bunks. Flickering lights. Smell of piss and sweat that never fucking left. Every night was a gamble—whether you'd wake up or get your throat slit for a pack of smokes. VIP wing my ass.."

Her fingers dug into her arms, nails pressing against skin. "I swore I'd never live like that again. That I'd never sleep in some shithole again."

Vincent let the silence hang for a moment before speaking. "But here we are."

She tensed, but he wasn't mocking her. Just stating the truth.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Fucking great, huh? Back to square one."

Vincent shook his head. "Nah. Not square one."

She scoffed. "Feels like it."

Vincent pushed off the wall and walked toward the couch, dropping onto it with a casual ease. He set the tiny sculpture back on the table. "Square one was when you were trapped. This? This is just a temporary stop."

Aurore crossed her arms tighter, looking away. "Still feels the same."

Vincent watched her for a second before leaning back. "Then maybe you should remind yourself why it isn't."

She shot him a look. "The fuck does that mean?"

"It means," he said, "that back then, you didn't have a choice. Now? You do. You're not stuck here. You can leave in the morning, get back to work, find a new place. You're in control of your own shit." He smirked slightly. "And you're not locked in a cell with a bunch of junkies trying to stab you over a half-smoked cigarette."

Aurore didn't say anything, but her fingers loosened slightly.

Vincent stretched his arms over his head. "Besides, you think I like crashing in places like this?" He glanced around. "Rita's got some standards, but it's still a dump. I'd rather be sleeping somewhere with half-decent water pressure."

Aurore huffed. "Then why the fuck are we here?"

Vincent gave her a pointed look. "Because it's safe. And that's worth more than a fancy bed."

She let out a slow breath, finally stepping forward and dropping onto the couch beside him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of Night City filtered through the half-broken window—distant sirens, shouting, the hum of traffic from the streets below.

Then Aurore spoke.

"...I was wrong."

Vincent glanced at her. "About?"

She hesitated. "Blaming you. For my brother."

Vincent didn't react immediately. He just let her sit with it. Let her feel the weight of what she just admitted.

Then, he spoke.

"Yeah," he said simply. "You were."

Aurore exhaled, closing her eyes. "I just… I didn't know where to put it. The anger. The guilt. It was easier to dump it on you."

Vincent nodded. "People do that. Especially when shit hurts."

Aurore swallowed, staring at the floor. "I thought I was different. Thought I was better than that."

Vincent let out a dry chuckle. "Nobody's better than that."

She looked at him, frowning.

Vincent leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The moment you think you're above emotions? That's when you're a fucking idiot. You can be smart. You can be strong. You can be cold as ice when you need to be. But you'll never be better than your emotions. They'll find a way in. The trick isn't ignoring them—it's knowing when to let 'em go."

Aurore stared at him for a long moment. Then, she scoffed. "You always got some philosophy bullshit ready to go, huh?"

Vincent smirked. "Keeps me from going crazy."

She shook her head, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion.

Then, she leaned back against the couch, eyes flicking to the ceiling. "Still feels like shit."

"It will," Vincent admitted. "For a while. Maybe forever. You don't just wake up one day and stop feeling guilty. You just learn to live with it."

Aurore sighed, rubbing her temples. "Guess I better start learning."

Vincent gave her a small nod. "You'll figure it out."

She didn't respond right away. Just sat there, eyes distant, mind somewhere else.

Then, after a long moment, she muttered, "Thanks, kid."

Vincent smirked. "Don't mention it."

And with that, silence settled over them again. The fire and rage inside her died out slowly as she fell asleep on the couch and Vincent stayed up all night working on his laptop..