By the time Neo and Panam reached the Night Wraith camp atop Rocky Ridge, the place was half-abandoned—only a handful of guards remained, probably the ones too weak or unlucky to join James in his doomed charge.
It didn't take long. Two and a half minutes—Neo counted out of habit.
Two and a half minutes, and every last straggler was gone, their bodies cooling in the desert wind.
He never left work unfinished. Not one breath. Not one survivor.
They moved deeper into the camp. Amid crates of scavenged junk and gutted cars, they found what Panam had been searching for—tucked away in a narrow cave like a relic from another time.
Her Car sat there under a tarp, still scarred from years on the road.
It wasn't just a ride. It was her.
Same model as the common rigs outside Night City, but this one was different—patched, welded, rebuilt a hundred times over. It had followed her from the western coast through the dust of the Badlands, from the Aldecaldo camps all the way to the NUSA border.
Panam stood before it for a long time, fingers brushing the faded paint as if greeting an old friend.
Even in a world where everything could be replaced—organs, limbs, memories—this machine held something irreplaceable.
Emotion.
"Neo," she said softly, her voice trembling just a little. "I've already thanked you a dozen times, but it's still not enough. This car… means everything to me. I could lose my crew, my contracts, even my home—but not this."
Neo nodded, running a hand along the vehicle's hood. "I get it. I was a nomad once too. For us, a car isn't just transport. It's the only friend that never lies."
Panam laughed quietly, brushing at the corners of her eyes. "Then I guess I owe you one hell of a debt. So… should we go find your lead now?"
Neo shook his head. "Not yet. Deliver your cargo first. Get your payment, rebuild your reputation. I'll wait for you—at Afterlife."
She blinked. "Afterlife?"
He smiled. "Yeah. You know where to find me."
...
Night City – Afterlife
When Neo pulled up in his Rayfield, the familiar hum of its engine echoed against the chrome towers. The same neon lights, the same damp concrete. Yet everything felt different—like the city itself knew who he was now.
The last time he'd stood here, it was the night before the Konpeki Plaza job. That night, a punk kid with bleached hair had tried to pick his pocket. Neo had let him live.
And now, fate—or something like it—had brought that same kid back.
Neo parked the Caliburn and approached with an easy smile. "Hey," he said casually, "you still hanging around this place?"
The kid—his hair still the same bright yellow, his jacket still too big—froze mid-step. When he saw Neo's face, he went pale, then flushed red.
"You—you're… you?! You're really talking to me?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Neo asked, amused.
"I just—uh—I didn't think you'd even remember me! I mean, you're him! The guy who took down Arasaka's hammer and their emperor!"
Neo chuckled softly. "Relax. I'm just saying hi."
The boy—hardly older than twenty—was shaking with excitement. He couldn't seem to figure out where to put his hands, his voice stumbling over itself. "I… uh… I'm honored, sir! Just didn't expect this!"
Before Konpeki Plaza, Neo's name had only meant something to fixers and mercs in the underground channels. But after the incident… after Saburo Arasaka and Adam Smasher died on the same night…
Neo became legend.
A living ghost story told in every alley of Night City.
The man who'd burned down a god.
Now, everyone in the city knew his name—Neo of the Night Ember.
He didn't care much for it, but he had learned to accept the weight that came with it.
"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
The kid blinked. "M-my name? You mean, me?"
Neo smiled. "Yeah, you. Unless I'm talking to your jacket."
The kid fumbled. "Uh—Lexington. My name's Lexington."
Neo's brow arched slightly. "Lexington, huh? Like the old-budget handgun."
"Yeah," the kid said awkwardly. "Guess my folks had a weird sense of humor."
Neo chuckled. "Nothing wrong with ordinary. Sometimes it's the Lexintons of the world who keep this city running. The legends just make the noise."
Lexington looked down, flustered.
Neo tilted his head toward the door. "So? You coming in for a drink?"
The kid's eyes widened. "Wait, what? Me? Inside Afterlife? With you? I—I can't. I'm just a small-time street rat. You're…"
"I wasn't always who I am now," Neo said, his tone quiet but firm. "I was a drifter once. Slept under broken overpasses, hustled cargo gigs, fixed cars for food. Nobody starts as a legend. So why can't a Lexington become one?"
The words hung between them like an open door.
Neo started toward Afterlife. "If you don't want that drink, forget it."
He took three steps.
And then, as if breaking free of gravity, Lexington scrambled to follow. "Wait! I—I'll take that drink!"
Neo didn't look back, but his mouth curved into a smile. "Good answer."
...
Inside Afterlife, the mood shifted instantly.
The heavy doors swung open, and the hum of conversation died. Even the music dimmed under the weight of recognition.
Dozens of mercs—some veterans, some wannabes—looked up from their drinks, their eyes wide.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "That's Neo."
"Arasaka didn't kill him?"
"Kill him? Are you kidding? He killed them!"
"Adam Smasher, Saburo Arasaka—dead in the same night. Neo did that."
Neo ignored the whispers. He walked to the bar, Lexington trailing half a step behind, eyes darting nervously around the room.
The bartender was already smiling when he approached.
"Well, well," she said, polishing a glass. "Long time no see, legend."
Neo nodded. "Good to see you too."
"What'll it be tonight?" she asked. "Same as before? Or are you here to celebrate?"
He leaned against the counter, eyes glinting beneath the low neon glow.
"Let's start with a drink for the living," he said. "Then we'll talk about the dead."
...