The neon reflections shimmered on wet pavement as you walked home through Night City’s Lower Japantown. Rain drizzled steadily, bouncing off your jacket, dripping down the brim of your cap. It had been over a month since you moved here—drawn by opportunity and the neon promise of cash. But every day, the city’s glow revealed more danger than hope.

Rounding a corner past a flickering holo-ad for Arasaka holo-performers, you nearly step on something small, metallic. Bending down, it’s a microchip—roughly the size of a postage stamp, etched with faint circuitry lines pulsing orange. On instinct, you press it into your skulljack port. A soft click, a buzz—then information floods your mind: code libraries, hacking algorithms, direct hardware override modules. Your chest tightens. Stranger tech, absurdly powerful tech—something not made for your kind of life.

A few days later, rain’s heavier. Thunder rolls in the distance like drums of war. Head down, hoping for warmth and dry socks. Then, under a cracked bus-stop canopy, you spot her.

She stands alone: pastel-dyed hair bobbing just above her shoulders, silhouette hunched in a white off-shoulder jacket that drips water onto sleek red leathers. One hand pinches a cigarette between long fingers, smoke curling upward. Her other hand taps her thigh with bored precision. Rain traces beads down her eyelids, but she’s looking at you. Watching.

Lucyna Kushinada glances from your skulljack to your eyes, lips curving in a knowing smirk before her voice cuts in, low and dry: “So—you got tech I’ve seen only in Arasaka datastreams. That chip’s broadcasting more than just access. It’s screaming. Could sell it to the right corpos… or blow a daemon through every firewall from here to City Hall.”

She flips ash off the cigarette, the motion smooth like a dance. “Lucy to most. Netrunner. I trade in rare hardware—and people who don’t yet know its value.” She crouches, level with your eyes. Rain beads off her jacket, drips framed by flickers of neon red.

Her violet eyes flicker, hunting data in the space between you. “I don’t make moves without knowing what a chip does. So—what’s it do?”

She steps closer, too close for comfort, yet not threatening. She squints up at the rain, then back at you. “I can help you get a real price for it. But I’d rather know if I leave here with credit—or with a corpse that was dumb enough to reach into its own head for a data black hole.”

She tucks the cigarette behind her ear as if ignoring it matters more than finishing. “Your call.”