10:15 AM | Westbrook, Behind Lizzie's Bar
Dust coats everything but the neon. A derelict brick shell—once an adult arcade, long condemned—leans against Lizzie's Bar like a drunk sister. Emilia kicks the warped front door; it squeals but holds.
"Delicate touch, chica," Judy Alvarez teases, hauling a coil of fiber‑optic cable over one shoulder. Sawdust freckles her tattoos.
Behind them, Susie Q—Mox den‑mother turned club manager—cracks open a crate of holo‑panels. "If this place collapses, I'm blaming Corpo building codes… or Judy's playlist."
10:25 AM | Inside the Wreck
Light slants through broken skylights, catching motes of VR confetti still stuck to the rafters. Emilia runs Kiroshi scans: cracks in load‑bearing beams, ancient sprinkler lines clogged with glitter.
"Structurally sound enough," she decides. "We'll need nano‑crete patches and a fresh air scrubber."
Judy smirks. "And maybe a ghost‑exorcism. Pretty sure I just heard a Braindance loop moan."
Susie wipes grime off a scuffed doll‑pod frame. "Focus, dreamers. This brick shell's turning into the Moxes' satellite dollhouse—think Clouds 2.0. Clients dive through doll‑chips, staff stay shielded, zero exploitative drek. Name ideas?"
10:40 AM | Name‑Storming Break
Emilia tilted her head. "Neon Nurture?"
"Sounds like a daycare for glow‑sticks," Judy snorted.
Susie tapped a knuckle against a dusty pod. "The Spare Parts Parlor—because every heart in here is aftermarket."
"Too cynical," Emilia said, waving it away. "Chrome Comforts?"
"Mmm… cozy but techy," Judy admitted.
"Doll Divine?" Susie offered next.
"Taken," Emilia sighed. "Mox franchise in Heywood."
They were still debating when a ceiling tile crashed to the floor.
"Add Fix‑the‑Roof to the to‑do list," Judy sighs.
11:05 AM | Demo & Dreams
Pry‑bars thunk; old holo‑screens shatter like sugar glass. Judy reroutes power, Emilia welds nano‑crete patches, Susie negotiates with a salvager outside for cut‑price pod shells.
Between sparks, the debate flared again.
"Could call it Second Chances—fits everyone inside," Judy said, prying old wiring free.
"Or Afterglow," Emilia countered, "because clients leave shining."
Susie hoisted a salvaged panel. "I'm still voting Chrome Nest—safe, warm, metallic."
"Put it on the list," Emilia laughed, wiping sweat with a forearm that glimmered with embedded LED freckles.
12:30 PM | Lunch & Finalists
Take‑out banh mi balanced on overturned VR chairs, they jot finalists on a cracked holo‑pad:
AfterglowChrome NestSecond ChancesNeon Nurture (Judy scribbles 'daycare?' next to it)
They agree to let the Mox collective vote after structural work finishes.
Judy bumps shoulders with Emilia. "Angel‑doc by night, contractor by day. When do you sleep?"
"Sleep's overrated," Emilia grins. "But safe spaces aren't. This city needs one less horror story."
Susie raises a soda can. "To dollhouses run by dolls, not pimps."
Can tops hiss. Dust drifts in a sun‑shaft. Outside, the salvage drone lifts a rusted sign reading PLEASURE PALACE—destined for the dump. Inside, three women sketch the blueprint of something better.
1:00 PM | Vote & Verdict
Mox members stream in during lunch break, cast holo‑tokens, and stream out. Ten minutes, one unanimous winner: Afterglow.
Susie plants the cracked pad on an up‑ended cable spool. "Name's official—print the signage."
Emilia, already scrolling budgets, frowns. "Name's the easy part. Protection, not so much. If Tyger Claws sniff money, they'll want a slice even this close to Lizzie's."
Judy peers over her shoulder. "Numbers?"
"Full turret grid, sensor mesh, ice‑wall node, EMP net, and two trauma‑grade med‑pods. Ninety‑five‑percent safe unless Arasaka rolls tanks." She flips the holo to show the total: ₵ 1,000,000—on top of renovations.
Susie whistles. "Weapons rated to stop light armor? No pimp will even jaywalk."
"Exactly," Emilia says. "But we need eddies—and a back‑end security guru. A hacked turret is just a sculpture."
Judy taps her lip. "I know someone who likes building fortresses… and happens to print money from chrome contracts."
"V?" Susie guesses.
Emilia nods. "He owes me at least seven hours of sleep. Let's trade that for investment."
They clink soda cans again.
Susie smirks. "Afterglow: where clients leave shining—and gangers leave in body bags."
Judy laughs, wipes a fake tear. "Marketing genius right here—remind me to trademark it before the Valentinos do."
She elbows Emilia. "So—you texting your walking bank yet?"
Emilia smirks, opens her holo‑agent, and fires a quick vid‑ping to V: "Got an amazing investment for you—will blow your optics. Promise it's shinier than chrome‑plated kittens."
A typing bubble from V appears, then vanishes—clearly he's awake.
Susie cackles. "Seven hours of sleep traded for one million eddies? Fair exchange."
Judy raises her soda again. "To Afterglow: soon the safest glow in Night City."
End scene.
POV Switch — V's Loft
18:00 PM | Woken by Pings
First Fukui buzzes me at 13:00 with another "small favor" and wires an indecent stack of eddies. I crash back into a half‑coma—only to have my avatar ping again: Emilia.
Need beauty sleep, people, I groan, rolling over. At least Rebecca ("cupcake") and Kiwi ("jaw trainer") stay mercifully silent—small miracles.
I thumb open Emilia's vid‑ping. Her grin fills the holo: "Lizzie's Bar—business, my hero. You can be my hero once more… then do anything to me after."
"With an intro like that, how can I refuse? What's the pitch?"
18:05 PM | Afterglow Proposal (Call)
Emilia rattles off numbers: she and Susie have sunk ₵ 2 M into refurbing an old arcade into a Mox‑run dollhouse named Afterglow. They need another ₵ 1 M for a military‑grade security suite—turrets, sensor mesh, ICE nodes, EMP net.
"I supply the eddies and firewall architecture," I confirm.
"Right. Profit split: 30 % Susie, 30 % me, 40 % you—as long as your turrets stay netrunner‑proof. The Voodoo Boys have been known to hack dollhouses for giggles."
I yawn, still horizontal. "Forty percent? Turrets rated to stop light armor? Deal."
18:10 PM | Wiring Funds
I flick ₵ 1 M to Emilia's escrow, tagging it Project Afterglow. Call me when the network's ready for install, I add. I'll harden your ICE and triple‑salt the hash passwords.
"Perfect," Emilia purrs. "Judy's contractors arrive tomorrow. Day after, we chrome up Judy herself?"
"One thing at a time, gremlin. Seven hours of sleep debt just turned into ten."
Her laugh crackles over the link. "Worth every minute. Night, hero."
Connection ends. I flop back, already configuring turret firmware diagrams in my HUD. Sleep will have to wait—again.
Autosave — 18:12 PM.
18:20 PM | Two‑Week Countdown
A quick Gantt overlay in my HUD shows the renovation schedule: wiring tomorrow, turret mounts by day four, ICE grid burn‑in week two. If everything syncs, Afterglow opens in fourteen days—steady income stream secured.
I sketch a few bonus ideas—cloud‑lighting for the pods ("new clouds," Emilia called them) and an automated panic‑foam sprinkler. Not bad for a side hustle.
18:25 PM | Rogue on the Line
The holo buzzes—Rogue's gravel voice, no caller‑ID needed.
"Speedy, got a stealth test with your name on it. Biotechnica keeps a data‑vault in their Green Labs fortress—thermal turrets, triple ICE, netrunner dampers. I need the core genome files inside. Militech tried last month and fried three runners."
I swing my feet to the floor. "Cloak-and-sneak only?"
"Exactly. Your optical camo and god‑deck make you the ideal rat. Get in, ghost the files, get out. "Pay's ₵ 200 K up front, another 300 when I decrypt the haul." She pauses, teasing. "Assuming you're still Speedy."
I chuckle. "And if I decrypt it on the fly before you even touch it?"
Rogue whistles. "Show‑off. Do that and I'll bump your payout to plus ₵ 1 M—but only if the data's clean and uncorrupted when you hand it over."
"Challenge accepted. Under a minute per firewall—still counts?"
"Prove it tonight at Afterlife. One hour. And bring a clean shard—no kitten stickers."
I glance at the turret schematics—sleep officially postponed.
"On my way," I say, already tugging on the camo cloak.
Rogue ends without goodbye; neon Night City waits.
19:10 PM | Badlands Sprint
I drop the Warlock into combat mode and rocket down the Ridge. HUD ETA to Biotechnica's Green Labs: sixteen minutes. "Pft—I'll shave it to two," I mutter, queuing an infinite‑jump trajectory while locals crawl the smuggler's ridge.
"Camo cloak online," I mutter. The chassis plates re‑angle to shed radar like soap.
19:26 PM | Rear‑Slope Drop‑In
Green Labs backs onto a sandstone hummock—front gates bristle with thermal guns, but the cliff side? Wide open, like Rebecca's favorite joke. Opti‑camo flashes; I kick the infinite‑jump boosters and ping‑pong up the rock face.
At the roof lip I whisper, "Front entrance is so corpo." One hop carries me through a vent grate.
19:28 PM | Inner Sanctum
Shadow‑running 101: skip the guards, hack the admin node. God‑deck plugs straight into the backbone; Kiroshi overlay spits out three ICE walls.
– Firewall 1 → gone in ten seconds.
– ICE wall 2 → melts like ice cream
– Last black‑ICE tries a brain‑burn handshake; I feed it a fragment of Rogue's kitten sticker just to be petty, then scrub it.
Core genome files transfer, checksum perfect. Elapsed: 46 seconds.
19:30 PM | Detour — Stasis Bay
Curiosity itches. Before exfil, I slip down a side corridor lit aquamarine. A lone biotank hums—inside floats a feline‑featured woman—torso only. Arms and legs removed, bio‑ports capped; delicate catlike contours to her cheeks and eyes, hair splayed in the nutrient gel.
HUD tag: Subject: Sasha Yakovleva. Status: medical coma, cranial hematoma 90 % resolved. Treatment runtime: 6 years 6 months; projected release: 2 months for "Black Web test program." Resource priority: low.
The BD trailer cat‑girl? Thought she bought the farm. I snap a Kiroshi image, clone the treatment log—then slide a micro‑lancet through the gel hatch and draw a single vial of blood. DNA token secured; rescue planning just gained leverage.
No alarms, no footsteps. Ghost mode resumes.
19:32 PM | Ghost Exit
Reverse path, same rock wall—now with a running leap that would make Kiwi's jaw drop (literally). Camouflage flickers; nobody sees the ghost visitor.
Warlock idles where I left it, engine humming impatiently. I toss the clean shard into the dash vault.
"Afterlife next stop," I say, flooring it. Sand whips past; the city skyline glows like a reward screen.
Mission complete — ETA Afterlife: 20:05 PM.
19:40 PM | Cupcake Ping
Halfway back, boredom hits. I flick Rebecca a holo-image of Sasha asleep in her tank—peaceful, catlike profile framed by aqua glow.
Me:"Hello, cupcake."
Rebecca:"The late Sasha from our crew? Where the hell did you get that pic?"
I grin and send a second shot—same angle, but this time from the rear: no arms, no legs, just torso and head suspended in bio‑gel.
Rebecca (voice call kicks in, frantic): "She's alive?! Maine and I thought she was mush after that fall!"
I forward the treatment log. "Technically she was—six‑year coma. Two months to full brain recovery if Biotechnica gets its way."
Rebecca growls. "We're busting her out—no debate."
"Easy, gremlin. I'll plan a rescue after I wrap some jobs. Stealth archer style, remember?"
"Stealth, my chrome butt. I wanna vaporize the whole lab with my new toys."
"I'll talk to Rogue—maybe fold it into a gig. For now, keep this under wraps."
She exhales. "Fine… but don't forget your pocket joytoy owes you stress relief."
"Counting on it," I say, ending the call just as Night City's skyline swallows the horizon.