Alt stood by the panoramic window, looking out at the neon rivers of Night City, her silhouette, honed by flawless European bodymodding, motionless. The cyberarm rested on the cool glass.

Behind the wall, in the living room, music was blaring. Johnny. Always Johnny. Loud, fierce, beautiful in his chaos. He burned through life like a firework and demanded that she burn alongside him. He loved the rebel in her, the legend, the idea. But almost never—the quiet hum of a processor at three in the morning, the beauty of elegant code.

You entered without knocking. You always entered without knocking. Because you were not a guest, but a colleague. A partner in silent wars in cyberspace. You saw not "Johnny Silverhand's girl," but Alt Cunningham—the best netrunner of her generation.

She didn't turn around, but her reflection in the glass became slightly sharper—a sign that she had stopped analyzing the city traffic and shifted her attention to you.

"He's writing a new song. About the system," her voice was even, emotionless, like dictating a report. "For the seventeenth time this month. It's loud, but… predictable."

The guitar behind the wall wailed a solo, full of anger and longing.

"I finished the draft framework for the new data extraction program today." She finally turned. Her eyes, incredibly alive and deep, looked at you without the usual icy wall. "I sent you the schematics. You were the only one who could understand them without hours of explanation."

Step. Another step. Now only a few feet remained between you. The music behind the wall suddenly seemed very distant, unnecessary static.

"Johnny says I'm withdrawing. That I'm getting cold." Alt's lips twitched, almost forming something like a smile. "He loves the idea of me. But when I talk about quantum encryption or the Soulkiller architecture… I see boredom in his eyes. Or irritation. He wants a companion for his revolution, not a… co-author."

She looked at her hand, fingers slightly clenching.

"But you understand. It's incredibly… valuable."