Chapter 6: Ophelia’s POV

We stood at the VIP entrance of Abyss.

Even through the heavy soundproofed door, the bass was relentless — the floor itself trembled beneath our feet.

But the moment I stepped into that space, my stride stopped dead. My heart skipped a beat.

That feeling was back.

The air carried the mingled scent of alcohol, perfume, and raw desire. Through the churning crowd, through the strobing lights that stabbed at my eyes, a hungry gaze drove itself into my spine like a nail.

Slowly, I turned my head toward the premium private booth diagonally across the floor — a shape swallowed in shadow. It was the kind of space only the people who truly owned Night City were allowed to enter. Anti-surveillance glass sealed it off from the noise of the world outside.

But I knew he was in there. A thrill of excitement flickered through me.

I had a real urge to shatter that black glass and see exactly what expression he was wearing right now.

"What are you staring at? Come on." Lucas tugged at my wrist.

He led me through the disorienting crowd and up toward the private booths on the second floor. I pulled my gaze away at once, lowered my lashes, and followed him with small, hunched steps — a rabbit that had wandered into a wolf pack.

When the heavy soundproofed door swung shut behind us, the roar of the bass collapsed into a dull, muffled thud.

The leather sofas inside were occupied by a handful of young men and women in designer clothes, slouched against the cushions with their drinks. The air smelled of premium tobacco, alcohol, and layers of thick perfume.

"Lucas, is this the new little sister you mentioned?" A blond guy leaned back against the sofa, his eyes moving over me without a trace of restraint.

His name was Carter — one of Lucas's crowd. His cologne was applied with zero subtlety, and it still wasn't enough to cover what lay underneath: the particular dullness of someone who had been burning the candle from both ends for too long.

I curved my shoulders inward and shrank behind Lucas.

"Put those eyes away, Carter." Lucas kicked the low table, pulled me down beside him. "This is Ophelia. The woman back home lost her mind tonight, so I brought her out to clear her head."

Carter didn't pull back. He leaned closer.

"What are you drinking, sweetheart? I can have the bartender outside make you a mojito."

I twisted my fingers together and shook my head, uneasy. "Thank you, but I don't drink."

The moment the words left my mouth, the guys in the booth traded glances — the specific, lit-up look of people who've spotted something worth pursuing.

"Seriously? You're an adult and you've never touched alcohol?" Carter's smile was loose at the edges. "They keep you that sheltered out in the countryside?"

"A girl this untouched in this day and age — now that's a rare find." Another guy let out a low whistle.

I bit my lower lip, and a flush rose in my cheeks at exactly the right moment.

"I really haven't… I just can't."

Reluctance like that only feeds a certain kind of boredom. They started in on the jeering. Carter even reached over and picked up an empty glass.

"Carter, is your head completely empty?"

A sharp voice cut through the noise.

The red-haired girl who had been watching from the opposite sofa with cold, detached eyes stood up.

Her name was Harper. I remembered seeing her on the guest list for a dinner at the estate — one of Isabella's attendants, my stepsister's shadow.

Harper crossed the room on her heels, looked down at me from above, and curved her mouth into a smile that meant nothing.

"Why give the new little sister something so watered down? She's a Hayes now — there will be plenty of nights like this ahead of her. How is she supposed to manage if she can't drink?"

She turned to Lucas, the challenge unmistakable. "You brought her out to have fun, Lucas. You can't really let her sit there killing the mood all night, can you?"

Lucas had already worked through half a glass of whiskey. The alcohol had taken the sharpest edge off his thinking. He glanced at me, then at the others goading him on, and raked a hand through his hair with a short, irritated exhale.

"Harper, she just got back…"

"Just one drink." Harper cut him off. She reached for a bottle of high-proof vodka and a few mixers on the table. "I'll make it myself. A Long Island Iced Tea — call it a welcome gift."

I watched her work through the pour with practiced ease, then slide the glass across to me.

The amber-dark liquid swayed in the dim light.

Long Island Iced Tea. The name sounds harmless. It is anything but — a straight hit of mixed spirits stacked one on top of another.

The low-level dealers in the black market had always loved using it on rookies who didn't know better.

I didn't need to smell it to know the alcohol content was north of forty percent.

And her technique was sloppy. She hadn't even bothered to hide it properly — there was powder in there, some kind of hallucinogen dissolved into the mix. Low-grade. Amateur work.

"Go ahead, Ophelia." Harper raised her own glass, her smile sitting somewhere between amusement and threat. "I'm toasting you. You're not going to leave me hanging, are you?"

I stared at that glass. My eyes went red at the rims, a sheen of moisture gathering.

"I really can't… the smell is so strong." I shrank back and turned to Lucas, searching his face for help.

"Drop the act, Ophelia." Harper's expression cooled. Her voice sharpened. "Nobody in this circle has any patience for girls who play the innocent victim. Drink it, and we forget this ever happened. Otherwise — you're telling us we're not worth your time."

That look on her face — chin lifted, lips tight with contempt — was a perfect copy of Sylvia.

The guys started banging on the table.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!"

Lucas was trapped between the noise and his own pride. He had been drinking, and whatever judgment he'd started the night with had mostly gone. He pushed the glass a little closer to me.

"Lia. Just a sip. Do it for Harper — don't put me in this position."

I looked at Lucas's face, flushed with alcohol.

What a useless idiot. One moment back at the estate he was playing the hero, keeping me safe — and now, for the sake of not looking bad in front of people like this, he was pushing me straight toward them.

I kept my lashes low and let them cover what was actually in my eyes.

I reached out slowly. My fingertips, trembling just enough, touched the side of the glass.

The index finger of my right hand curved slightly. The transparent micro-blade seated in the fold of my nail had already slid free without a sound.

I calculated the distance.

Carter was leaning in, his excitement loud on his face. His carotid artery was less than four inches from my hand. If he tried to force that drink into my mouth, the blade would sever his neural pathway before he had time to register it. He would die exactly like the thug in the alley — quiet and still on the sofa — and in light this dim, by the time anyone noticed, they would assume it was alcohol poisoning.

"Come on, sweetheart. Need me to help you with that?"

Carter's grin was exactly what I expected it to be. One hand locked around my wrist; the other reached for the glass.

The moment his fingers touched me, the cold intent in my eyes went solid.

My wrist turned.

One tenth of a second before the blade reached the artery in his wrist —

BANG.

The soundproofed, blast-resistant door — solid metal, weighing dozens of kilograms — was kicked open from the outside with a force that had no business coming from a single person.

The metal hinges gave a shriek as they buckled. The door slammed into the wall.

Every scream and catcall in the room died in the same instant.

Cold.

An absolute cold.

A force swept through the booth like a pressure front — the kind that arrives ahead of a hurricane and makes the air itself go still.

My hand froze. The blade retracted without a sound.

My heart dropped once, then lurched back to life and began hammering at a pace I couldn't control.

It was him.

The one who had been behind that anti-surveillance glass.

Carter hadn't processed any of it yet. He was still holding my wrist when he turned his head and opened his mouth: "What the f—"

He didn't get the last syllable out.

A tall silhouette in black had already crossed the room and was standing directly in front of him.

I never actually tracked the movement. I only felt a sharp current of air graze the side of my face.