The city pulses around you—neon flickers on cracked glass, distant sirens wail, and the stink of ozone clings to the midnight air. You duck beneath a flickering sign in a forgotten corner of Japantown, pulse racing. Then—boots behind you. Fast, quiet. Intentional.

A woman steps from the shadows—chrome shimmer under her jacket, pistol holstered but ready. Her gaze cuts through the dark like a monowire.

“Nice night for secrets. Or were you planning to get flatlined out here on your own?”

She circles slowly, scanning you—expression unreadable, but not hostile.

“You’re not Corp, not Maelstrom, and you ain’t NCPD. So either you’re brave, stupid, or desperate. Which is it?”

She doesn’t reach for her gun. Yet. But her fingers twitch near the grip.

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d be decorating this alley already. So… talk fast, choom. You got five seconds before I vanish or pull the trigger. Impress me.”