Takemura Goro had once served Arasaka.
He never hid it. Not even after Saburo's own son shattered his spine, stripped him of everything, cast him out like trash, and sent assassins and ninjas to hunt him through the shadows.
Even then—Takemura never disowned his past.
He'd been raised under the Arasaka banner, fed by their hand, molded by their iron code. He was a product of that empire, and he accepted it. Even now, half-broken and half-forgotten, he refused to blur the truth.
So when the insults came, when the mercs in Afterlife started barking, he didn't flinch. He only frowned, slow and deliberate, turning to face them.
A handful of bulky mercenaries had gathered behind him—big men, muscles twitching under synthetic skin, eyes gleaming with hate.
"Oh? Not just a corpo dog," one sneered. "You're a corpo relic!"
"Hey, fossil—this bar ain't for corpo trash like you."
"Get the hell out before someone scrubs you off the floor!"
Their jeers mixed with whistles and mocking laughter from the other tables.
It was the old rivalry—the eternal war between mercenaries and corporate hounds.
Mercs saw corpo men as sellouts—soulless slaves who'd traded freedom for obedience.
Corporates saw mercs as dogs without leashes, all bark and blood, no discipline, no worth.
Oil and fire. They'd never mix.
Takemura's voice was calm, his tone like a blade sliding from its sheath. "Watch your mouths."
One of the mercs smirked and stepped closer until their chests nearly touched. "Oh? Since when do corpo dogs bark back in our house?"
Takemura rose slowly from his seat, straight-backed despite the weight of his years. The difference in size was comical—he was older, thinner, and carried none of their bulk.
But when his eyes lifted, the room shifted.
The noise died.
His gaze was sharp enough to cut through the neon haze—calm, lethal, absolute.
Men who had survived gunfights and cyberpsychos hesitated under that look.
Because loud men were empty men.
And men like Takemura didn't need to shout.
Just as the first fist began to tighten, a cold, commanding voice echoed from the upper floor.
"When," said the voice, "did Afterlife become a merc-only bar?"
Every head turned toward the balcony.
Rogue Amendiares descended the stairs—poised, immaculate, the queen of Afterlife. Even the air seemed to part for her.
"And since when," she continued, "did my bar host cage fights?"
The tension evaporated—or rather, condensed. All that heat and fury froze the moment she spoke.
Rogue's word in Afterlife was law.
She crossed the floor with unhurried grace, heels clicking against metal, stopping at the bar beside Neo. Without even glancing at the scene, she said, "Claire. Pour me a Johnny Silverhand."
Claire nodded and reached for a bottle.
Rogue sat down beside Neo, her eyes catching the faint reflection of his empty glass. "You're dry?"
Neo shrugged. "Ran out."
"Claire," Rogue said, "same drink as before—on my tab."
"Got it."
For a while, silence filled the bar, broken only by the soft clink of glass. Rogue's tone, when it came, was calm—but every word carried the weight of command.
"This place," she said, "isn't for corpo deals or merc politics. It's for drinking and talking business."
Her gaze drifted toward Takemura, then the mercs. "Normally, I don't like corpo types in my house. But," she said, her voice cooling further, "out of respect for Neo, I'll allow it tonight."
Her eyes narrowed. "Under one condition. The samurai stays only if he can make every single one of you shut your mouths."
A ripple of surprise swept through the crowd.
Rogue leaned back, arms folded. "And if any of you think you can throw him out—go ahead. The floor's open. Let's see if you've got the guts to back that noise."
The queen had spoken.
Now came the blood.
Takemura didn't hesitate. "Fine," he said. "You wish to drive me out, then do it—if you can."
He scanned the crowd. "Raise your hands. Let me see how many of you are eager to be humiliated."
Hands went up all around the bar. Mocking cheers followed.
"I don't like him!"
"Corpo trash doesn't belong here!"
"Look at this old man—does he even have cyberware that still works?"
Takemura's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. "Good. That saves me time."
He turned his head slightly toward Neo. "Give me five minutes."
Neo raised his glass, unfazed. "Take ten if you want. The person I'm waiting for isn't here yet."
He leaned back in his seat with a lazy posture.
He wasn't about to interfere.
Takemura was a samurai, bound by pride sharper than his katana. He wouldn't want help—and Neo wouldn't insult him by offering it.
Besides, not every battle needed the legend to step in.
Sometimes, watching the old wolves bite was part of the show.
Takemura stepped into the center of the open floor. The crowd parted like water. His presence alone demanded space.
"Rogue-san," he said evenly, "I will not bring shame or damage to your establishment."
"Then keep it clean," she replied.
The first merc lunged—a big man, tattoos running up his arms, a combat knife flashing from his thigh holster. He came in fast, faster than most could track.
But Takemura only sighed.
"Too slow."
His hand moved once. A blur.
The merc's knife went flying. Pain flared through his wrist before he even realized the blade was gone. In the same instant, Takemura's counterstrike came—clean, precise.
The stolen knife buried itself through the merc's palm, pinning it to the table behind him.
The man howled, staring in disbelief at his impaled hand.
Takemura's voice was calm, almost tired. "If I had aimed for your throat instead of your hand, you would already be dead."
He stepped closer, meeting the stunned eyes of the crowd.
"Too weak," he said simply. "So weak I don't even need to draw my blade."
The bar went dead silent.
The mercs shifted uneasily, anger and fear mixing in their eyes.
Takemura stood motionless in the center of it all, the faint gleam of discipline in every line of his posture.
And from the bar, Neo's quiet voice drifted through the silence:
"Well," he said, smiling faintly, "that's one down. Who's next?"