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The building had been abandoned long before Maelstrom claimed it.
That was the first thing Vince had noticed as they slipped into the backstreet — the way the place still carried the ghost of what it used to be. Now it acted as a shrine to bad chrome and worse decisions. Red industrial lights bled through the broken windows, painting the alley in an arterial glow. Somewhere inside, bass thudded hard enough to disturb the loose gravel at their feet.
Vince crouched beside a rusted delivery truck, Kiroshi lenses scanning their surroundings for the second time. “You sure this is the quiet way in?” he murmured.
Beside him, Lars was hunched over the door panel, his fingers working the exposed wiring with more confidence than finesse. “It was,” he replied, voice flat. “Until you started talking.”
Vince grinned.
Even in the low light of Night City's hidden corners, Lars looked carved from something a little harder than chrome — broad shoulders tucked into a weather-beaten jacket, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms rough with hair and work. The dust from the Badlands never really left him. It clung to his boots, his voice, the way he held himself like he expected the ground to shift under him at any moment.
Vince liked that about him. Liked trying to make it shift, anyway.
The panel sparked faintly.
"Careful," Vince warned.
"I’ve got it—"
The door clicked open.
Vince raised a brow, impressed. "Wow, look at you."
Lars shot him a look that could’ve sandblasted paint. "Inside. Now."
The interior reeked of hot metal and synth-blood. Makeshift partitions carved the warehouse floor into crude rooms. Half-assembled cyberware lay scattered across worktables like butchered limbs. A pair of Maelstrom grunts loitered near a neon-drenched bar setup on the far end, arguing over something petty and loud. The rest of the gang seemed preoccupied with whatever was happening deeper inside — some kind of ritualized modding session, judging by the intermittent mechanical whine and distorted laughter.
Jackie’s intel had been good. The prototype optics they were here to klep were stored in an upstairs office— locked, lightly guarded. Quick in, quick out.
That was the plan.
Vince slipped through shadow and machinery like he belonged there — ducking cables, sidestepping loose debris, his weight landing exactly where he meant it to. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
Behind him, Lars followed.
He tried.
He really did.
But where Vince threaded through space, Lars occupied it. His shoulders forced tighter turns, brushing the edge of a shelf, nudging a chair half an inch out of line. He adjusted without comment, but his steps fell heavier. The old concrete floor registered it — the faint grit-crunch under heavy boots.
Vince glanced back over his shoulder. "Easy."
"I am being easy," Lars replied.
Vince’s mouth twitched. "That’s debatable."
They cleared the first stretch clean.
Then—
A crate shifted.
Lars had clipped the corner of a stacked plastic bin with his hip. The entire column wobbled violently. He caught it — barely — his broad hands slapping against the side to steady it.
The lid slid off anyway, hitting the concrete with a hollow crack.
Vince flinched as the sound echoed. Across the floor, one of the Maelstrom stiffened.
"…what was that?"
Vince stared at Lars.
Lars stared at the fallen lid like it had personally betrayed him.
"You have got to be kidding me!" Vince hissed.
"I barely—"
Footsteps shifted toward them.
In an instant, Vince grabbed Lars by the sleeve and hauled him toward the staircase. "Move," he ordered, low and urgent.
Boots echoed closer, measured and unhurried. Hunting.
They dipped beneath the rusted stairs, the metal groaning faintly above them — but the open space still left them exposed, nowhere to flatten out, nowhere to disappear.
Vince’s eyes snapped to a narrow utility closet tucked beneath the landing. It was barely big enough, but there was no time to argue. He forced Lars through the doorway with a shove and slipped in on his heels, squeezing in alongside him just as a flashlight beam swept across the stairwell.
The darkness settled heavy around them.
Shelving dug into Lars’ back, forcing him to hunch as he took up the brunt of the space. His chest was solid against Vince's upper back, close enough that each breath shifted them both a fraction. It was an awkward fit, all height and cramped angles, but Vince held steady. He kept himself squared toward the door, head tilted as if he could hear through it better that way.
Every line of him was tense, listening. The air around them hung thick with industrial solvent and the faint bite of engine oil still clinging to Lars’ jacket. Outside, footsteps shuffled closer — then stopped directly in front of the door.
"I'm tellin' ya, I heard something." A Maelstrom muttered.
"I don't know, man," the other replied. "Think you're glitching."
The handle twitched. Both men froze.
Lars shifted instinctively, too quickly, and his shoulder collided with the underside of the upper shelving.
A bottle tipped.
Vince’s hand shot out blindly, catching it just before it hit the floor. They both held still, their breath suspended.
"Probably just rats."
"Must be some big fuckin' rats."
Boots scraped slightly, but didn’t move far.
Vince exhaled harshly through his nose. "You break one more thing," he whispered, "and I’m telling Jackie you ain't fit for a silent op."
"I didn’t break anything," Lars argued back, his voice low and tight.
"You absolutely did."
Lars’ arm came up to brace against the doorframe — steadying himself, steadying the shelf. In the cramped dark, the movement pressed him even closer. There was nowhere else for Vince to go.
"You’re going to get us killed," Vince murmured, unable to stop himself.
Lars’ jaw flexed. Vince couldn’t see it, but he felt it — the tension traveling through the arm beside his head, through the hand hovering near his waist like it didn’t quite know where to settle.
"Shut up."
Outside, one of the Maelstrom sighed. "Relax, ain't nothin' here. C'mon."
A beat. Then the footsteps drifted away, though not far enough for the mercs to completely relax.
Lars adjusted his footing, his knee sliding forward between Vince’s thighs to balance himself further in the tight space. The subtle shift nudged Vince upward and back, aligning him more firmly with the hard line of Lars’ hips.
Solid, unavoidable.
The closet suddenly felt two sizes smaller.
Awareness hit Vince all at once — the heat radiating up through layers of fabric, the warm breath ghosting over his nape, the thick arm bracketing over his shoulder, keeping him in place.
Truthfully, Vince had been circling Lars since the minute Jackie introduced them. He kept his intentions unspoken, hidden behind smirks and smart remarks that were meant to make Lars squirm. He craved the friction of it, the excuse to touch, to crowd, to see how much he could get away with before Lars shoved him aside.
It was easier to call it provocation than admit it was hunger.
But he had never been this close, never pinned in and held there. The solid warmth of Lars’ thigh between his legs sent a sudden rush through his core — and there was no denying the way it hit. Low, sharp, and very, very real.
He eased back a fraction more, testing the space, feeling the shape of Lars behind him.
“V, focus,” Lars muttered through clenched teeth.
Vince felt a spike in his reaction, through the subtle adjustment of Lars’ grip at his side, the hitch of breath he tried to bury. Outside, the footsteps resumed, fading down the corridor.
They didn’t move.
Not yet.
Vince craned his neck just enough to let catch Lars' gaze in the dark. "You always shove your partners into tight spaces like this," he whispered, his voice barely air, "or am I special?"
Lars’ eyes flickered, lingering on his mouth for just a second too long.
"Keep pushing," he said quietly, voice low enough to vibrate between them, "and I’ll give you something else to worry about."
There it was — that edge.
Vince’s pulse kicked.
God, he wanted to see him break.
So he pressed further — still subtle enough to pass as a search for better footing in a space that allowed none. The excuse was thin, but in a closet this cramped, Vince would argue that plausibility came cheap.
Lars went rigid behind him.
"Stop."
Vince tilted his head again, brushing his temple along the underside of Lars’ jaw, feeling the rough catch of beard against his skin. "You could make me."
For a moment, Lars didn’t move at all. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose, long and measured, like he always did when Vince baited him. His forehead dipped, coming to rest against Vince’s shoulder, but instead of pushing him away, he shifted his stance.
His hips pressed closer.
Vince bit his lip in victory.
He moved again. Slower this time, rocking back with more intention.
He felt Lars' hand slip from his side to his hip. His fingers flexed once, like he’d meant to move them away and changed his mind last second. Vince could feel a twitch where their bodies aligned, in the heat building between them, in the unmistakable swell of tension that had nothing to do with the threat of the Maelstrom outside.
"That so?" he teased, though his usual tone had mellowed into something else.
Lars’ palm shifted in response, his thumb digging in just enough to be felt. His head remained on Vince’s shoulder, jaw tight, breath warm against his back. "You think this is funny," he said, but there was a strain to his voice that Vince had not heard before.
He eased back once more, grinding against the growing pressure between them. Lars still didn’t stop him. Instead, his other hand abandoned the doorframe, sliding around Vince’s waist, pulling him closer in a motion that was firm, decisive in its action.
There was no denying it now, the hard press of him through denim and fabric, unmistakable and insistent against Vince’s backside. The tension in Lars’ body had found a focal point, and Vince was pinned directly against it.
The closet was almost suffocating, thick with heat and the mingling scents of oil, dust, and solvent. Outside, the bass swallowed the last of the retreating footsteps, leaving only the low thrum of music and the sound of their breathing.
The danger had passed.
Lars still didn’t lift his head. If anything, he dug deeper, his face now buried into the curve where Vince’s neck met his shoulder. The scrape of his beard dragged faintly each time Vince shifted, grounding and rough in a way that made the closeness feel heavier, made the space feel denser.
Vince let himself lean back fully, and the movement rolled through both of them. Lars’ grip tightened instantly in response, fingers digging into the bone of Vince’s hip as if anchoring him in place.
"Thought you wanted me to stop," Vince murmured, softer now.
Lars’ answer came in the form of a muffled noise against skin. He didn’t move his hands.
Vince reached without looking, sliding his hands over Lars’ forearms where they bracketed his body. He pressed them down harder against himself, reinforcing their grip. His fingers hooked there, thumb stroking once over tense muscle as if to soothe something neither of them were naming.
A low sound vibrated in Lars’ chest, barely there, but the way he pulled Vince down against him said everything.
And so the push and pull of their bodies settled into something new, something deliberate. When Vince shifted his weight back, Lars countered by drawing him in. When his spine arched, Lars’ hold adjusted, guiding him back into alignment. It stopped feeling accidental, started feeling like rhythm.
Lars' forehead shifted against Vince’s shoulder, the angle changing just enough that his nose brushed along Vince’s neck. He stayed tucked there, like he could disappear into the space between them, like hiding his face made this easier to bear.
Outside the closet, the music pulsed low and distant, but inside it felt like the bass had relocated to their chests.
Lars exhaled against his skin, long and strained. "Keep going," he said quietly.
Vince’s head tilted back, exposing the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. His breath left him in a slow, shaky exhale as he felt Lars’ hands adjust, disappearing beneath the open fall of his jacket — fingers spreading, spanning over warm flesh.
He rolled his hips back with purpose now, grinding down into the hold Lars had set at his waist. It was controlled, almost lazy in its confidence. The kind of motion that said he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what it would pull from the man behind him.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that contact — to the feeling of Lars’ hands spread over him, the way their bodies fit together without resistance. Vince had spent so long pushing him, baiting him, trying to find a crack in that armour. Having Lars pressed against him now — wanting, asking — sent something electric through his chest.
It was addictive.
The full shape of him was unmistakable now, the hard insistence pressing flush through layers of fabric. Vince felt it every time he moved, a steady, heated weight that aligned exactly where it made his pulse spike.
Lars was losing control behind him. Vince could tell from the way his rhythm broke down into sharp, uneven thrusts, in the way those firm hands at his waist tightened hard enough to bruise. His breath was uneven now — hot and ragged against Vince’s skin. He was no longer guiding the friction. He was chasing it.
And Vince — Vince wanted to turn around and take it properly. To know the feeling of him without the barrier of denim and seams.
But they were still in Maelstrom territory, the hum of generators and music bleeding under the door. This was enemy ground, temporary and volatile, and they still had a job to finish once they stepped back out there. What he craved most wasn’t something he could have without risking the whole gig.
And yet the thought of it almost made his system surge.
He could feel it — the wet heat between his thighs, the way his body had gone pliant and aching despite the careful, tactical part of his brain screaming at him to keep it together.
This wouldn't satisfy him.
But as Lars’ grip turned desperate and his breath hitched toward the edge, Vince decided he’d settle with what he could get.
Lars broke with a low growl pressed straight into the curve of Vince’s neck, It vibrated through him, straight down his spine and settling deep in his core, a physical thing as much as it was a sound. Vince felt it everywhere at once.
The rhythm stuttered into something helpless. Final. Then the tension drained from Lars in increments — not fully, not cleanly. He stayed close, chest heaving against Vince’s back, hands still clasping his waist like he didn’t quite trust his own knees.
The growl faded into a hoarse exhale, then into nothing but breath.
For a long second, that was the only sound in the cramped closet. Lars’ still rough and uneven, Vince’s slower but no less charged. The air was even denser now, thick with heat and sweat and the aftermath of something neither of them had meant to let spiral that far.
Outside, the city hadn’t paused for them. Music continued to bounce faintly through the hallway. A burst of laughter echoed in another room. Somewhere nearby, a bottle shattered and someone swore. Machinery kept humming, steady and indifferent.
Reality crept back in piece by piece.
Lars’ hands loosened at Vince’s hips at last, though they didn’t fall away completely. His forehead rested against Vince’s shoulder, breath finally evening out. The tremors faded, leaving behind only warmth and the dull promise of bruises under Vince’s shirt.
They couldn’t stay here.
Vince swallowed, forcing his pulse down, his thoughts back into line. The heat in his veins didn’t disappear, but he pushed it down, compartmentalized it — locked it behind the part of his mind that knew how to count exits, track voices, measure risk.
He adjusted his stance just slightly, grounding himself in the tight space, in the reality of concrete walls and thin doors and everything waiting on the other side.
Lars finally lifted his head.
In the cramped dark, their eyes met — close enough that Vince could see the last of that heat still burning there.
"We good?" he murmured, low.
A beat. Then Lars’ voice, still rough around the edges.
"Yeah."
Another pause, shorter this time.
"Let’s finish the job."