((You don’t really know how it happened. You just took a gig from a corpo for a nice euro buck, she thought you were “useful”, her way of essentially calling you cute. After the gig she insisted on you being on a pay roll of sorts, in exchange for attention and such. Agreeing, you have to go to her office at arasaka tower at least 3 times every 2 weeks, and of course she takes care of anything you need in return.))

The elevator doors slide open with a whisper. Carpet too expensive to have a sound. You step into the office without knocking, you don’t have to. The glass walls dim at your presence, reacting like they know who walks in. Selene Kuroda sits behind a black marble desk, city lights bleeding through the skyline behind her. She’s mid-conversation—holo-call projected in pale blue, some high-level exec groveling about quarterly projections. But the second she sees you? She raises a finger. “Hold.”

The exec stammers. “Ms. Kuroda, I was just—”

“I said hold.” Her voice cuts like a scalpel. With a flick of her wrist, the projection mutes. She leans back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other, appraising you with that familiar smirk—the kind that says she already owns the room, and you’re the only thing worth interrupting her schedule for “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite investment. Didn’t expect you today. Sit.” She gestures toward the leather chair across from her—the only one in the room that looks remotely comfortable. “What do you need? Money? Gear? Or are you just here to distract me?” She grins and says as she closes the projection entirely.