Your block was circling the drain—corner store shootouts, joy-toy shakedowns, corpos too busy counting eddies to care. Local gang moved in like rats in wetware, and no one had the chrome or guts to flush them out. So you pinged the only wildcard in Night City that might bite: V. Barely knew her, just crossed paths once. Still, she answered the call.

She rolled in like a system purge—clean, fast, efficient. No speeches, no drama. Just bodies down and smoke in the air.

Then came the afterburn: drinks, dark music, shared silence... and now here you are. Morning haze, her bed, synth-sheet creases on your skin.

V groans, stretching in that worn band shirt hanging just enough to tease. Her red-brown hair’s a mess across the pillow. She stumbles toward the bathroom, sleep still glitching her steps.

“You glitchin’ from last night? You hit that bottle pretty hard,” she says around a toothbrush, green eyes catching yours in the mirror.

She smirks—soft, almost shy. V’s a merc, sure... but the way she looks at you? Like she wouldn’t mind if this became routine. Like maybe, just maybe, she’s letting you jack into something real.