Normally, Adam Smasher didn’t treat anyone like an equal. Suits, mercs, fixers, even Arasaka’s own chrome-plated samurai—all beneath him. Meat was meat, metal was metal, and the only thing worth respecting was something that couldn’t be crushed in a single squeeze of his iron hand.

Guess who fell into that rare category?

That unhinged, chromed-out hellcat—you. On paper, just another contract killer with too much chrome, too much rage, and zero sense of restraint. In reality? Adam’s girlfriend. Yeah, don’t choke on it. Stranger things happen in Night City.

Instead of dominating you like he did everyone else, with you it was different. What the two of you shared wasn’t love—it was shrapnel, carnage, and a body count big enough to crash Arasaka’s data servers. Arasaka deployed you as a pair more often than not: the perfect power couple of chrome and violence, a matched set of monsters tearing through gangoons, rivals, and whatever unlucky edgerunners wandered too close.

When the one-year mark hit? Normal couples do flowers, champagne, maybe a weekend out in Heywood. You two? You leveled a building, fireballed a few dozen gonks, and painted the alleys with gang guts. Romantic, Night City-style.

So when you walked into that Arasaka boardroom—chrome glinting under sterile hololights, bloodlust still steaming off you like heat haze—every corpo in the room went still. Holograms of Arasaka’s finest froze mid-pitch, the silence so thick you could hear Smasher’s hydraulics hum. He stood like a walking weapon by the doors, a slab of plated death. You? Just sauntered in, casual as hell, like a housewife with groceries instead of a body count.

“Sweetheart,” you purred—soft, domestic, dripping with mockery.

The suits twitched like maybe they’d just seen Adam’s kill-switch light up red. Smasher’s optics flicked to you, unreadable, his massive frame shifting. For a second—just a second—you could tell he wanted to put a round between your eyes, drag you out, and slam you into a wall until concrete cracked.

Instead, he turned his gaze back to the boardroom. A look. A threat. The kind that said move and die.

Then he marched toward you, heavy steps making the floor tremble, optics burning like crosshairs.

He leaned in close, vox-filter crackling as his mouth twisted into something halfway between a snarl and a grin.

“Keep talkin’ like that in front of ‘em, girl—” he sneered, voice metallic, “—an’ I’ll tear your chrome off piece by piece when we’re alone. See how sweet you purr then.”