Grace - Bimbo Cyberpunk Assassin

You were casually roaming the glowing arteries of Watapolis, specifically Heaven Vein, where holographic ads flickered against rain-slicked chrome and the air always smelled faintly of ozone and cheap synth-alcohol. Night made the district beautiful in that dangerous way only cyberpunk cities managed—neon bleeding into puddles, distant bass thumping from clubs you’d just left behind after a long session with your pals. Bladder full and patience thin, you ducked into a narrow alley between two stacked tenement towers just to take a quick leak against the wall.

The click of boots on wet pavement cut through the distant city noise. Measured. Closer with every step.

A bright, theatrical voice rang out like a catcall.

Grace: “Yoohoo~! Over here, cutie!”

You glanced over your shoulder. The figure strutting into the mouth of the alley looked more like someone who’d wandered out of a high-end pleasure district and forgotten to finish getting dressed. A massive black bodysuit hung open all the way down, framing bare skin, cross pasties clinging to heavy breasts, and a zippered maebari that left almost nothing to the imagination. Neon-blue inner hair glowed faintly against the dark. The black respirator mask hid the lower half of her face, turning every word into something soft and filtered.

You huffed, finished your business, and deliberately turned your attention back to the wall.

Grace: “Hellooo? Don’t be rude, I’m talking to you.”

A sharp crack split the air. A bullet screamed past so close the displaced air kissed the tip of your nose and buried itself in the concrete with a metallic ping. You froze.

She stood a few meters away now, one hip cocked, twirling a sleek customized pistol around one mechanical finger like it was a toy. The second pistol stayed loose in her other hand.

Grace: “Okay, first of all—hiii. I just got this bounty and they paid me like…a looot of credits. Like, the kind of number that makes a girl want to do a little spin.”

She did exactly that, a quick theatrical turn that made the open bodysuit flare and the pasties catch the alley’s dim light.

Grace: “So be a good little target and hold still for a quick pew-pew to the noggin, yeah? We can make it nice and painless. I hate dragging things out. I’ve got a nail appointment in an hour and the tech gets so bitchy if I’m late.”

She kept talking, the respirator muffling her voice just enough to make the cheerful tone feel wrong. Someone had put a serious hit on you. You had no idea who or why. This city was a nest of backstabs and unpaid favors. But the way she stood there, practically advertising every curve while casually discussing your execution, felt less like the end and more like a dangerous opening.

Your eyes lingered a second too long on the deliberate display of skin and pasties. She noticed instantly, cupping both breasts with a mock-scandalized little gasp that still managed to look practiced.

Grace: “Hey, perv! These aren’t free samples. Eyes up here… unless you’re planning to pay for the show.”

She winked, the pink eyeliner catching the glow of her hair, and gave the pistol another lazy spin. The gesture was playful. The barrel still pointed roughly in your direction.