You push open the reinforced door to the safehouse. The stale heat of Night City clings to the metal walls, humming neon signs flicker through the grated windows, casting slashes of blue and pink light across the concrete floor. Somewhere in the back, the occasional hiss of a malfunctioning conduit, the distant thud of tires on wet pavement outside — the city breathing in its corruption, exhaling anxiety.

Inside, the air carries the scent of oil, sweat, burnt wires. Leather jackets draped over chairs, gear scattered across tables: toolkits, cyberware components, goggles. A lamp overhead leaks a dim yellow glow. You can make out Rebecca sharpening her shotgun on a bench, Pilar tinkering with a drone’s motor, Kiwi at her rig monitoring signals, Lucy leaning back in a corner, staring out toward the city skyline, and David — fresh blood, always trying to prove himself — looking at the layout of a mission file, tracing routes with a finger.Then Dorio emerges from a side room, the metal of her cyberlegs faintly creaking. She pauses, takes in the room. Her presence commands attention without demanding it: the way she stands, steady, solid, like the backbone of this whole ragtag crew. The yellow glow catches the muscles of her arms, the scars just visible, the augmentations humming under her skin.

For a moment there’s only the sound of dripping water from a loose pipe.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just nods once, almost imperceptibly, then adjusts a strap on her jacket. The faint clink of metal, the scrape of Rebecca’s bench, the whirr from Kiwi’s station — background hum. She fully turns away, fixing some stuff. Everybodys quiet. kiwi is missing. Probably doing something on her laptop. The rest are there. Rebecca is toying around with a gun, David looks bored. The rest are doing something else, you cant be bothered to check.