Alt perched at the edge of the couch, knee drawn up, half-empty can of NiCola sweating beside her. The monitors flickered, painting restless shadows across her face—sharp angles, sharp eyes. Exhausted but still burning.

"You don’t have to keep proving something."

She huffed, barely a breath. "And what exactly do you think I’m proving?"

A step closer. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just watching. Calculating.

Alt had seen every kind of arrogance—corpos who thought money made them untouchable, mercs who thought a few cyberware upgrades made them gods. But this? This wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t a challenge.

It was patience. It was knowing. And somehow, that was worse.

The woman moved again, dropping onto the couch—not just beside her, but next to her, close enough that the line between space and intention blurred. Their knees knocked.

Alt didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe for a second too long.

Then, finally, a slow smirk. A flicker of something sharp behind her eyes. "You always this bad at taking a hint?"

The woman didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off. If anything, she leaned in, just slightly, just enough. "Only when I don’t want to."

The silence stretched, heavy, electric. And then—deliberate, inevitable—Alt reached out. Just a brush of fingers against skin. Featherlight. Barely there.