The first merc lay groaning on the floor, his palm pinned through with a knife. The next fool—emboldened by pride rather than sense—lunged forward with a full-length katana, neon light glinting on the blade.
He charged with practiced speed, both hands gripping the hilt, thrusting straight toward Takemura's chest.
There was a faint click.
Takemura's hands moved like water. Two palms closed together around the incoming blade—stopping it cold. Not even a tremor.
"Your strength is lacking," he said quietly. "With arms this soft, you shame the sword you wield."
The merc snarled and pushed harder. Metal groaned but didn't move.
Takemura's eyes flashed. "A weapon bears its master's soul. Yours is hollow."
He twisted sharply, a single, perfect motion.
Crack!
The katana snapped clean in two.
Before the merc's shock could even reach his face, the broken half of his own blade was already buried in his stomach.
He staggered back, eyes wide, and collapsed at Takemura's feet.
The entire bar fell into dead silence.
Afterlife—Night City's cathedral of killers—stood frozen.
No one breathed.
An aging corpo samurai had just dismantled two armed mercs bare-handed.
Somewhere near the bar, a glass clinked nervously.
Takemura turned his gaze slowly across the room, his expression unchanged. "Now," he said, voice low and unhurried, "does anyone else still think I'm unworthy to drink here?"
No one answered.
He scanned the room again. "Good. Then the match is settled."
He bent to wipe his hands with a napkin, his tone turning almost polite. "In duels, the loser pays the same price he demands of his opponent. You wanted me out—now it's your turn to leave."
Then, with a faint bow of his head, he added, "But I dislike disrupting others' evenings. So let's call it finished."
He turned, walked calmly back toward the bar, and stopped beside Neo and Rogue. "It's done," he said.
Neo raised his glass. "Good work."
Rogue, meanwhile, surveyed the room, her gaze hard enough to cut through chrome. "You all saw what happened," she said. "Let's make this official—tonight's business ends here."
Her voice carried like a gavel strike. "If anyone walks out that door planning revenge, think twice. You'll find yourself drinking alone."
The mercs nodded silently. In Night City, respect was earned by blood—and Takemura had earned plenty tonight.
...
Rogue's tone softened as she turned back to Neo. "Claire told me something interesting," she said. "Last time you were here, you mentioned that you don't believe only the dead deserve to be remembered."
Neo glanced up from his glass. "I might've said that," he admitted. "Back then, I was a bit naïve. Too loud with my words."
Rogue smiled faintly. "Maybe so. But I think you were right. You've already earned your place here. You've burned your legend deep enough into the city's veins."
Her eyes gleamed. "So tell me, Neo. Do you want to leave your mark on Afterlife's menu?"
The entire bar went silent again.
A personal drink—immortalized on Afterlife's wall.
Even hearing Rogue offer it was like witnessing history.
Neo didn't look surprised. He looked… thoughtful.
He stared at his half-empty glass, the amber reflection flickering in his eyes.
"There was once a ripperdoc in Night City," he began quietly, his voice carrying over the still air. "A good one. Maybe the best. His name was Andrei Volkov."
People leaned closer without realizing it.
"Andrei Volkov could outcut ninety-nine percent of the city's chrome doctors. His skill wasn't just mechanical—it was… human. His patients healed faster. Cleaner. Fewer side effects. He gave people more than what they paid for."
Neo's tone grew softer. "That kind of kindness doesn't last long here. He gave too much of himself. And when his body failed, no one could fix him. Because even the best rippers can't patch their own hearts."
The bar was silent. Even the music had faded into static.
"He's gone now," Neo said. "And most of you don't even remember his name. You won't find him on any clinic registry, any street corner. But I do. And from tonight on, so will you."
He turned to Claire, his eyes steady. "The drink I'll leave here… I want it named Andrei Volkov."
Claire blinked, then smiled. "What's in it?"
"Whatever the drinker wants," Neo said. "No rules. Just—add a drop of love. And when you drink it, you say the words: 'To Andrei Volkov.' That's all."
Claire nodded, typing the entry into her console. "Drink name: Andrei Volkov. Ingredients: any choice + a little love + one toast—'To Andrei Volkov.' Added to Afterlife's menu."
Neo lifted his glass. "Then pour me the first."
Claire smiled. "Chilled rum, a drop of love, and one toast—'To Andrei Volkov.' Coming right up."
She set the glass in front of him.
Neo raised it slowly, the ice catching the neon light.
"This one," he said, voice low, "is for Andrei Volkov."
The first sip was quiet. Almost sacred.
And in that silence, Afterlife—for once—felt alive.