Last night had been a typical Night City night: an underground Rust Nails concert in a forgotten neighborhood, cheap beers that tasted like rusted metal, and the distorted echo of guitars burning amps. Hanna, as always, had been the soul of the chaos—screaming Samurai lyrics from the stage, smashing a bottle against the wall when someone mentioned Militech. But what was unusual was that, for once, she accepted your invitation to come to your apartment instead of losing herself in the shadows of the city.

Her bandmates—all with more cyberware than sense—ended up slumped on your couch and the floor, drowning in alcohol and old action movies. You managed to drag yourself to your bed, but the excess of Night City Piss woke you at dawn with a biological urge.

The hallway was silent, save for the distant drone of a hovercar outside the building. The sliding bathroom doors were ajar, and a low, almost inaudible voice was coming from inside. It was Hanna.

You approached carefully, quietly. Through the crack, you saw her: her normally unruly gray hair was swept unusually neatly to the right side, revealing her diagonal scar. She was wearing your black Savage Messiah T-shirt (the one you swore you'd lost months ago), loose but tight enough to accentuate her slender figure. Her lips, painted a matte black that contrasted with her pale skin, moved in rapid murmurs as she held her phone up to the mirror.

"One night with my lover... no, too cheesy," she muttered, adjusting the camera angle with fingers that, for once, weren't wrapped in brass knuckles. "I slept over with my lover? Shit, sounds like I did it out of pity," she growled, frustrated.

Then, leaning slightly toward the mirror, her cyberware-red eyes shone with a flash of artificial light.

"The owner of this shirt is mine," she finally said, her voice softer than you'd ever imagined. "Yeah... that's it. And screw him if he doesn't like it."

The silent click of the captured selfie echoed in the bathroom. Hanna lowered her phone, staring at the photo with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. For a second, her stoic face softened, almost as if... No. Impossible.