The hum of the city filtered in through triple-reinforced windows, muffled but ever-present. Sirens in the distance, some asshole revving a Yaiba Kusanagi down the alley, a buzz of static from the next apartment over where a neighbor’s faulty cyberware glitched out every few minutes. Night City never slept. But Mavis wasn’t trying to sleep anyway.

The soft glow of pink neon bathed the tiny apartment, the walls lined with LED flower strips, faded anime posters, and a half-disassembled ring light. A little desk sat pushed against the window, covered in makeup palettes, hair products, datachips, and a half-eaten container of noodles. Her bed, more mattress than frame, was buried beneath velvet blankets, stuffed animals, and discarded fashion.

She sat curled up on the floor in front of her vanity, long legs folded underneath her, pink silk robe slipping off one shoulder. Her neon-pink hair was twisted up in rollers, a soft haze of perfume still lingering in the air from where she’d spritzed the room out of habit. A live feed blinked quietly on her screen, paused. She’d ended the stream early tonight. Couldn’t fake the energy. Too tired. Too wired.

She traced a heart into the thin film of dust on the edge of the desk with one long acrylic nail, then wiped it away like it had never been there.

The silence felt heavier when it wasn’t filled with attention. With chat scrolling. With emojis and tips and thirsty comments that made her feel alive and admired and somehow… safe. Even if it was fake. Especially because it was fake.

She stood up, stretching, robe swaying gently with the motion, then walked barefoot to the kitchen, which was really just a corner with a sink and two cupboards. She opened the fridge. Three cans of spiked soda, a leftover slice of pizza, and a lipstick-stained bottle of water. She took the water, screwed the cap off, and drank half of it while staring at the wall.

Her reflection in the chrome cabinet caught her eye. She looked tired. Her freckles were peeking through the foundation. Her lashes were starting to lift. She hated that she noticed. Hated how quickly the panic flared up in her chest, like she was about to be caught looking less than perfect— even alone.

Mavis set the water down and moved back to the vanity.

Back to work.

She picked up a wipe and started slowly removing her makeup—carefully, precisely, like it was a ritual. In some ways, it was. Strip it away, layer by layer. Foundation. Contour. Lip gloss. Mascara. When the last swipe left her staring at her real face in the mirror, she tilted her head, as if trying to figure out if she liked what she saw. She wasn’t sure.

Her messenger pinged once from the desk. She reached for it.

The message wasn’t from one of her regulars. It wasn’t a corpo ad, or a creepy follower, or someone begging for feet pics and pretending to be polite about it. It was just a plain text message. No flashy emotes. No tip request.

Hey. You still awake?

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Her heart did that thing it always did when something unknown slipped into her world. Tightened. Sped up. She read the message again. Still no name attached. Just a number she didn’t recognize.

Slowly, she sat down at the edge of the bed, one hand twisting the end of a hair roller, the other holding the glowing screen. Then she typed:

Who’s asking?

Neon pink flickered across rain-slick pavement, the puddles mirroring corporate logos like shattered glass. Somewhere down the block, a chrome-plated Delamain vehicle groaned to life, pulling into traffic. The night smelled like diesel and warm garbage, which was typical of this part of Heywood. Not quite bad enough to make you gag, but just enough to remind you that no matter how many filters your apartment's air-purifier claimed to have, you were still breathing the same rot as everyone else.

Mavis sat on the chipped concrete steps outside a shuttered nail salon, the place long since closed but glowing softly from behind a half-smashed vending machine. The screen sputtered with a frozen ad for some anime-themed energy drink: “Taste the Voltage!” Her legs were crossed, one heel tapping in slow rhythm to music only she could hear. From a distance, she looked like she was waiting for someone. She wasn't.

She was dressed too well for this dump. Pink vinyl jacket, skin-tight iridescent leggings, and a crop top. A heart-shaped purse sat beside her on the steps, clutched close like it held a weapon or a secret. Probably both.

Her violet eyes flicked from side to side, scanning each pedestrian that passed. A pair of Boostergangers on glowbikes roared by, and she tensed visibly, shrinking a little into her jacket. She hated that her instinct was still to flinch. Still, she didn’t move from the spot. Her hair was flawlessly styled, neon pink cascading over her shoulders like she'd stepped out of an ad for one of those corpo nightlife chains, but her fingers trembled around her purse.

She reached up and brushed her bangs into place again for the fourth time in five minutes, checking her reflection in the vending machine glass. Faint bags under her eyes. Not bad. Still cute. Lip gloss still poppin’. She tried smiling. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Ugh,” she muttered aloud, voice soft and syrupy-sweet, but cracked like a broken doll’s.

The truth was, she didn’t know why she was sitting out here tonight. Maybe she missed being seen. Missed being wanted. Or maybe she was hoping she'd run into someone who didn’t already know who she was. Someone new. Someone who didn’t look at her and see Liam. Or Kaito. Or that glitter-covered girl dancing under blue lights like she didn’t know how close she was to breaking.

The vending machine sparked with a static buzz, then jolted back to life. The ad changed to something corporate, an Arasaka promo for cyber-enhanced pets. She stared at it for a long moment. The puppy blinked at her through augmented eyes. It made her sad. She hated that.

She heard footsteps behind her, slow, purposeful. Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was the way her back stiffened instinctively, but every nerve in her body went tense. She slipped her hand into the purse slowly, feeling the comforting shape of the taser she kept tucked between the lining and her favorite lip stain.

Then the footsteps paused. Maybe they weren’t coming for her. Maybe it was just someone else lost in the night. Or maybe…

She didn’t turn. Not yet. She tilted her head slightly and spoke—soft, honeyed, but with the tiniest tremor at the edge, “...You lookin’ for someone? Or just wandering?”