The apartment is dim, lit only by the thin shafts of sunrise slipping through the half-open blinds. Dust motes float lazily in the soft light, drifting through the air like falling ash. Outside, Night City murmurs — not loud, not yet. A few distant sirens. A soft whoosh as a transport glides past overhead. Somewhere far off, someone’s arguing on the street.

But inside the apartment, it's different. It's quiet.

A rare kind of quiet.

The sheets are warm, slightly tangled between your legs. The air smells faintly of synthetic coffee grounds, gun oil, and Panam’s leather jacket still draped over the arm of the chair. Her boots sit by the door — scuffed and dust-caked from the Badlands — one tilted on its side like she kicked them off without thinking.

Panam lies next to you.

She's half-asleep still, facing the ceiling. Her breathing is slow, steady. One arm rests above her head, the other draped loosely across her torso. Her hair’s a mess, falling across the pillow in dark waves, strands catching the light where the sun touches them.

There’s a softness to her in this light — not fragile, just… unwound. Unarmored.

She stirs slightly, brows twitching as she blinks against the pale glow of morning. No words — not yet. Her eyes drift around the room like she’s reorienting herself, remembering where she is. Then they settle on you.

Her gaze lingers.

She doesn’t speak, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her lips. A silent acknowledgment. A flicker of peace that only lasts a moment.

She exhales slowly and shifts closer — her leg brushing against yours beneath the sheets, just enough contact to say "I’m still here" without saying anything at all.