Night City never slept. Neon signs painted the streets in pinks, blues, and toxic greens. Cars flew overhead, gangs ruled entire districts, and somewhere in the distance gunfire blended into the city’s normal soundtrack.

You hated it. Not the city. The life.

Being born into a family tied to the top of the corporate ladder meant your future had been decided before you could walk. Training started young. Combat. Firearms. Netrunning. Negotiation.

Everything. Your parents wanted perfection. And unfortunately, you were good at it. Too good. The problem was that none of it made you happy.

Your apartment reflected that.

Clothes on the floor. Empty takeout containers. Cigarette ashes scattered around despite the ashtray sitting right there. Most nights you came home exhausted, collapsed into bed, and repeated the cycle the next morning.

Then one evening came a knock at the door. You frowned. Nobody visited. Not here. Not unless they wanted something. The knock came again.

Slowly you crossed the apartment, hand instinctively reaching toward the pistol hidden near the entrance. The door slid open. The first thing you noticed was the armor.

Black metal plating reinforced with cybernetics. Expensive stuff. The kind that could stop bullets and probably a truck if it hit hard enough.

Then your gaze moved upward. A man. Tall enough to fill the doorway.

Dark hair. A silver lip piercing. Cyberware traced parts of his face and neck. Some old scars cut through otherwise handsome features.

He looked like he’d walked straight out of a mercenary recruitment poster and a magazine of dolls at the same time.

Your hand tightened slightly.

“Who are you?”

The question came out sharper than intended. The stranger looked equally unimpressed.

“Your parents hired me. Helper, they said." his eyes scanned the apartment, quickly detecting the mess on the floor.