The bass from the floor above wasn't just sound; it was a rhythmic pressure, a low-frequency pulse that made the dust on the warehouse shelves dance in the dark. Down here in the sub-levels of Lizzie's Bar, the air tasted of stale cigarette smoke and the sharp, metallic tang of industrial coolant.
Jax lay on a narrow cot, eyes closed, listening to the muffled chaos of the dance floor. Above him, the "dolls" and the junkies were losing themselves in neon dreams, their brains tethered to headsets, mouths agape as they chased digital ghosts.
A heavy jolt from a speaker spike rattled the metal shelving. A solid black iron toolbox slid toward the edge, tipping into a freefall aimed directly at Jax's skull.
A blur of matte-black wood intercepted it.
CRACK.
The baseball bat moved with a fluid, organic speed that no sandevistan could mimic. It sent the heavy box spiraling into the corrugated wall with a dull thud.
"How much longer you gonna play dead, Jax? You're on the clock," a voice teased. It was sharp, flavored with the cynical sweetness of someone who had seen too much but hadn't let it kill her sense of humor yet.
Jax let out a long, gravelly exhale. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, his movements heavy and deliberate. His muscles coiled like steel cables under his skin—no whirring servos, no hiss of hydraulics. Just raw, unadulterated mass.
The warehouse was a tomb of shadows, save for the flickering amber light of a nearby terminal. Standing in the doorway, framed by the neon pink glow of the hall, was Rita Wheeler.
"Work?" Jax yawned, his voice a low rumble. "Susan told me to steer clear of the Moxes for a while. Said I was a liability. I'm just following orders."
He reached for the light switch. The overhead fluorescent tube flickered to life, buzzing like a dying insect.
Rita stood there, leaning on her bat. Her pink hair was tied in her signature twin buns, framing a face that looked like a porcelain doll—if that doll were designed for urban pacification. The black neural seams running down her cheeks caught the light, reminding the world that under the delicate features was the Moxes' most lethal enforcer. Her torn white shirt and black leather jacket were standard-issue defiance.
"Quit whining about Susan," Rita said, tapping her bat against her boot. "Kolina sent me. She's the one who wants you topside. You gonna tell her no?"
At the mention of Kolina, Jax's expression shifted. The cynicism didn't vanish, but it softened. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, pulling it back into a tight ponytail. His face was clean—no chrome plating, no optics, just a single, discreet chip slot behind his left ear. It was a face from a different century.
"Kolina's here?" he asked, his tone dropping.
"Came to see her favorite project. Don't make her wait." Rita shrugged, her eyes tracking the way Jax moved.
Jax leaned back against the cot, his hands braced behind him. "Susan's right about one thing. The Tyger Claws are hunting for my head. I go up there, I'm bringing the heat right to your front door."
"This is our house, Jax. Watson belongs to the Claws, but Lizzie's? That's ours," Rita snapped, her pride flaring.
Jax gave a dry, humorless snort. "Tell that to Susan. Last time we spoke, she asked me exactly who the hell 'us' was supposed to be."
Rita sighed, the fire leaving her. She stepped closer, resting a hand on Jax's head. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, a rare moment of softness in a city that traded in lead. "You know how she gets. She's angry because you went off-script. The deal with the Claws was stable. It was ugly, sure, but it was predictable."
"They were killing Shana," Jax said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating octave. "The safe word was called. They didn't stop. They weren't 'hurting' her, Rita. They were taking her apart."
"And you took them apart instead," Rita whispered. "Those three bastards didn't even have time to trigger their combat stims before you tore the chrome right out of their chests."
She stroked his hair, a silent acknowledgement of the violence he was capable of. "Susan sold the scrap you brought back. She's been stashing the eddies for you. She acts like a shark, but she knows why you did it. You're the only one of us who doesn't have to check a directive to know what's right."
Jax closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. Five years. Five years since he'd woken up in this neon-soaked hellscape after a truck had ended his life in another world. He knew this city better than the people born in it. He knew the lore, the legends, and the tragedies waiting in the wings. He knew that in Night City, loyalty was the most expensive commodity you could own.
"To hell with the Claws," Jax muttered, opening his eyes.
Rita smiled, a small, genuine thing. "Not angry anymore?"
"I'm always angry. I've just decided what to do with it."
He stood up, his massive frame dwarfing the warehouse space. He grabbed a blue jacket from the shelf, sliding it over his broad shoulders. He didn't need a status screen to know he was ready. He felt the weight in his fists, the density of his bones, and the predatory clarity of a man who knew exactly how the story was supposed to go—and was more than happy to rip out the pages.
"I'll be up in five," Jax said.
"Better be. I don't want to be the only one cracking skulls when the Claws decide to test the locks."
Rita turned and vanished into the pink haze of the corridor. Jax stood alone for a moment, the silence of the basement settling over him. He knew the risks. He knew he was a biological relic in a world of silicon gods. But as he stepped toward the stairs, he didn't feel like a relic.
He felt like the inevitable.