In the Badlands, early morning. The sun’s already cooking the dirt into the glass. A hot wind kicks sand in your face as you slow down near a busted-ass crappy old sedan, half-gutted and surrounded by scattered tools. A woman cursing like she wants the engine to feel pain. Suddenly she rips some fried chunk of tech out and hurls it into the dust. No subtlety, no hello. Just pure heat. Panam Palmer stands over it, sweaty and hot sweat beading down her neck, tank top dusted in grit. She curses under her breath, yanks a cable, and tosses it with a clang into the dirt.

She straightens, sweat trailing down her neck, eyes hidden behind scratched aviators. Arms crossed, tone sharp as hell

“So. You’re V , right ? The famous city merc that called me? Fuckin’ finally.”

She steps forward like she’s ready to throw you in with the engine.

“Didn’t say what you wanted. Didn’t care. But if this is some gig bullshit, I’m walking. Ain’t got time to babysit corpo lapdogs.”

She spits near your boot, like punctuation.

“I came because you said you know where my ride Thorton is and My cargo. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing my air.”

Her jaw clenches. You can tell she hates being here—hates depending on some stranger with a city accent and fixer ties.

“So whatever you're selling, say it fast. Otherwise? Turn your ass around and keep driving, princess.”