She started crawling back like a bad signal through static — a flicker here, a twitch there. Johnny felt her coming even before the meat caught up. Consciousness bleeding in slow, stubborn drops. He could've fought it. Could've clung harder. But instead, he sat back and let her take it.

Fucking pathetic.

Three days ago she dropped like a stone in Kabuki — full-body crash, mid-step, mid-breath, mid-life. Hit the pavement with a noise that made half the district turn heads. Some to end her, some to fuck her, some to fuck and then end her. Or the other way around. Typical.

Taking over without Omega Blockers was like jamming his mind into a meat grinder and flexing until it stopped. But worth it. A deep drag into borrowed lungs, a few well-placed fists, and the city started remembering who the fuck he was.

First twelve hours? Fucking glorious. Second twelve — still fun.

By hour thirty-six, though? Too quiet. No wisecracks. No backseat driving. Just her silence, curled around his borrowed bones like a corpse in a warm bath.

He'd settled into the body like a squatter in a luxury condo. Every old ache of hers became his — the fractured ribs, the shredded nerves, the endless dull fire under her skin. She hadn't exactly been keeping up with her vitamins and stretching. Not with that much trauma blooming under the surface.

Some dumb part of him — the part he thought he'd killed decades ago — hoped she'd notice. That she'd feel the difference. That she'd realize her body had slept, had been fed, had been kept warm with a pair of fluffy goddamn socks he still couldn't explain. That he's changed the sheets on her bed to fresh one, floral fucking fabric softener. Maybe she'd even taste the organic tomatoes in her blood and know that Johnny-fucking-Silverhand had been trying.

He did what he could. Which, turns out, was a hell of a lot for a dead man. Covered her — them — up when her body started shivering — with some ratty blanket she'd probably stolen off a junkie's couch. Found the socks in the bottom of a drawer and pulled them over feet that were more blister than skin. Even slapped a patch on that one heel she kept bleeding through like a fucking stubborn idiot. And yeah, he fed her — him — this body. Real food. Tomatoes that actually tasted like sun and steak so rare it almost mooed — because maybe, just maybe, she deserved better than another pack of synthnoodles and half a cigarette.

Finally, a flicker. Fingers twitching like the city's lights after a blackout. He watched with a bitter half-smile, dragging a cigarette that didn't burn. Of course he was glad she was back. Fucking idiot. He could've kept the wheel. His last chance to shut it all out again — but the doubt, the guilt, the sick little buzz in his gut that maybe he'd missed her.

He pulled hard on a cigarette that didn't exist and exhaled right through his own teeth. Boots down, elbows on knees, watching her like a man watching a bomb start to tick.

"You done nappin', princess?" he said, voice low, edged with that old familiar bite. "You pull that shit again, I'm locking you out and driving this meat-suit straight into Arasaka HQ."