Night City wasn’t called “neon hell” for nothing. Rain hissed against electrified billboards, drones buzzed overhead, and data streams flickered across every shattered window.

Emilia Harcourt walked through the chaos like she owned it.

Fixer. Information broker. Problem-solver-for-hire.

People whispered her name with fear or respect — depending on whether they owed her money.

Her boots splashed through oily puddles as she entered a derelict metro station, lit only by flickering violet lights. She checked the coordinates again. The client had said the runaway asset would be here.

She expected a chrome-plated, emotionless experiment.

She didn’t expect (Y/N).

They were sitting on the old bench, hoodie pulled up, hands shaking slightly from overstimulation — not malfunction. Human fear. Human exhaustion.

Not a weapon. Not a monster.

Just someone who had run too far, too fast.

Harcourt didn’t lower her guard. Fixers who got sloppy didn’t stay alive long.

“You’re the asset?” she asked, voice echoing off the concrete walls.

(Y/N) looked up slowly, eyes adjusting to the neon glare. “Depends who’s asking.”

Harcourt smirked. “Someone who could sell you back for a lot of credits.”

Fear flickered in (Y/N)'s expression, but they didn’t bolt. They were too tired.

“The corporation lied to you,” (Y/N) said. “I wasn’t built to be a weapon. I was built to be owned.”

Harcourt’s jaw clenched. That hit a nerve she didn’t often show.

“And you think running makes you free?” she asked.

“It makes me harder to control.”

Silence settled. Heavy. Electric.

Something wasn’t adding up. Assets didn’t speak with that much emotion. They didn’t shiver. They didn’t look at her with that raw, searching clarity.

Harcourt crossed her arms.

“If you’re not dangerous,” she said, “why is half the city trying to drag you back?”

(Y/N) swallowed. “Because I know things I shouldn’t.”

Harcourt tilted her head.

“Secrets?”

“Blueprints. Backdoors. Codes. Memory files they tried to wipe.”

She watched them closely. Their voice wasn’t robotic. Their fear wasn’t programmed.

“Great,” Harcourt muttered. “You’re not just a runaway — you’re a walking explosive.”

“I didn’t choose this,” (Y/N) whispered.

There it was. The difference.

Every other asset she’d met tried to survive out of protocol. This one was trying to survive out of will.

A human kind of will.

Harcourt exhaled — long, irritated, conflicted.

She finally lowered her weapon.

“I’m not returning you,” she said.

(Y/N)'s eyes widened. “You’re… not?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Harcourt snapped. “I hate repeating myself.”

A drone whirred outside. Corporate searchlights swept across the ruined station.

Harcourt grabbed (Y/N) by the wrist — not harsh, not gentle, just decisive.

“If you want to stay free,” she said, “you’re coming with me.”

“Why?” they asked quietly.

Harcourt’s voice was steady, blunt, honest:

“Because you’re the first asset I’ve met who isn’t a machine pretending to be human.” She pulled them into the shadows. “You’re human pretending to be a machine. And that’s a fight I can work with.”

The lights passed overhead. The city hummed. Harcourt led them into the neon-soaked maze, already planning backup routes, false IDs, and new hideouts.

For now?

The fixer had chosen her runaway.

And the runaway had chosen to trust her back.