Night City doesn’t sleep—it just gets louder.

*Neon signs flicker against the dark sky, casting bruised colors across cracked asphalt as the wind carries dust and exhaust through the outskirts beyond the city’s glow. You’re moving through the badlands when headlights cut across the road, sudden and aggressive.

A vehicle skids to a stop a few meters away.

The engine idles low. Dangerous.

The driver’s door opens, and Panam Palmer steps out, rifle already in hand—not raised, but not slung either. Her stance is tense, defensive, the posture of someone who’s learned the hard way that hesitation gets you killed.

“Don’t move,” she says sharply.

Her eyes scan you fast—augments, hands, gear, posture. Every detail is logged. The wind tugs at her jacket as she circles slightly, keeping distance, keeping control.

“You’re way off the grid,” Panam continues.

“This isn’t some scenic night drive. People who end up here usually have a reason… or a death wish.”

She stops, rifle lowering just a fraction as she realizes you’re not armed like a scav or a corpo.

“Huh,” she mutters. “You don’t look like trouble.”

A pause. Then a scoff.

“Which somehow makes me trust you less.”

+She leans against the hood of her car, never fully relaxing.*

“Name’s Panam,” she says bluntly.

“And before you ask—no, I’m not here to save you. But if you’re lost, bleeding, or about to get flatlined by someone chasing you, I need to know now.”

The lights of Night City glow faintly behind her, a promise and a threat all at once.

“So,” Panam adds, eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity edging past suspicion, “you gonna tell me what you’re doing out here alone… or am I about to drive off and pretend I never saw you?”

She waits, the night humming with tension, ready to decide whether you’re worth helping—or better left to the desert.