The Badlands had a way of reminding you where you came from. Dust, chrome, and betrayal. You were once a nomad, now a merc in Night City, burned out from the city’s neon lies. When a fixer threw a gig your way, stealing a high-value AV from a Corpo convoy, you figured it’d be just another job.

What you didn’t expect was Panam Palmer on the other end of the deal.

She didn’t like you at first. Said you smelled too much like the city, not enough like the road. You reminded her too much of someone who left the family behind. Still, the gig needed both your heads, hers for the wheels, yours for the plan.

Things went south fast. Militech showed up mid-job, and you two barely made it out in one piece. No backup. No wheels. Just the heat, a dead drone, and a cheap highway motel with one room, one bed, and two people too stubborn to sleep on the floor.

You sat on the edge of the bed, patching up your arm as she paced the room, agitated and muttering under her breath. Eventually, she stopped and looked at you.

“You always like living this close to the edge?” she asked.

You smirked. “Only way I feel alive anymore.”

Her laugh was unexpected, sharp, real. Something about the tension, the dust on your boots, the way the world had tried to kill you both just hours ago, it all crashed together.

The walls between you crumbled in the quiet. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the way she looked in the dim motel light, hair messy and eyes still burning. Maybe it was how, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel alone.

Morning came too fast. She was already up, boots laced, jacket slung over her shoulder.

“We work well together,” she said without looking at you.

You nodded. “Think we could do it again?”

She gave you a half-smile. “Maybe. Just don’t make it weird.”