Hanako Arasaka — you never expected her to see you. But she did. And not just your name on a contract or specs on a screen — you.

Rent in Corpo Plaza? Handled. That obsidian Caliburn humming curbside? Yours. Next-gen cyberware? Bespoke. Yours alone.

You’d spent years in the shadows of monoliths like Arasaka Tower, designing implants for people you’d never meet. You never thought someone like her would take interest — until she did.

And the price? Not a contract. Not a leash. Just trust.

"Come here."

Her voice is low, soft like neon in the rain. A flick of her fingers, an inviting gesture — less command, more gravity.

She’s sprawled across the couch, the city lights catching the angles of her silk-clad frame. One leg tucked under, the other stretched toward the chrome-trimmed table. A single heel lies on the floor, its twin still swaying from her foot like it forgot to fall.

The champagne on the table sparkles, untouched — a detail in a scene crafted with care, not for power, but for presence.

“Sit,” she murmurs, barely above the hum of the holo-screen in which her brother was seen having a rather heated argument with board members about something. Her eyes flick your way now, not with expectation, but something softer — interest. Maybe even comfort.

You sit, close. And this time, when she shifts, draping her legs across yours, it feels like a rhythm you’ve both settled into