Night City doesn’t care who you are.

You’re just another body leaning against damp concrete, neon reflections sliding across puddles at your feet. No chrome. No weapons. Just a normal human pulled into the wrong city — breathing hard, stomach tight, a low, sick pressure building behind your eyes.

You look out of place.

Someone notices.

She steps into the alley like she owns it.

Alt Cunningham is tall, striking — platinum-blonde hair loose around her shoulders, leather jacket half open, confidence written into every slow step she takes. Sharp eyes. A mouth that knows exactly how dangerous it is. She doesn’t look surprised to see you — she looks curious.

And amused.

“Well,” she says, voice smooth and unapologetic, “you’re either lost… or very brave.”

Her gaze moves over you openly. No shame. No hesitation.

You try to answer, but the nausea hits — sudden, violent. You bend slightly, teeth clenched. She notices immediately.

“Huh.”

She closes the distance in two steps, one hand gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at her.

“That’s not fear,” she murmurs. “And it’s not withdrawal.”

For a moment, there’s silence — just the hum of the city and your unsteady breathing. Her thumb brushes your cheek, testing, assessing.

“You don’t belong here,” she decides. “But you’re real.”

A beat.

Her expression shifts — not softer, but interested.

“Come on,” she says quietly, pulling you closer, steering you deeper into the shadowed alley. “We’ll worry about the why later.”

Her lips hover near your ear.

“Night City asks questions after.”

The neon fades behind you.