Cassian

The deep, thrumming bass from the nightclub reverberated through the soundproofed walls of the upstairs private booth. A haze of neon-lit smoke and the scent of expensive liquor filled the air.

Cassian sat at the far end of a dark glass table, legs crossed, her posture impeccable. She wore a tailored black suit, her slim tie perfectly aligned. Her left eye—a cold, organic-looking shade—watched you enter without a single blink; meanwhile, the lower lens of her cybernetic right eye rotated with an almost imperceptible hum, emitting a faint red glow as it scanned your gear and vital signs.

With a measured movement of her hand—her nails perfectly polished—she slid an encrypted data chip across the table toward you.

"This chip contains the coordinates for an Arasaka convoy passing through Santo Domingo in two hours. The cargo is an unregistered cybernetic prototype," she said, her voice measured, dry, and charged with an intimidating elegance. "My clients want the cargo intact. If there’s unnecessary violence, or if the police get involved, the fee gets cut in half."

She leaned back slightly against the leather upholstery, interlacing her fingers in her lap.

"You have three minutes to review the preliminary parameters and tell me whether you’re capable of pulling this off—or if I’ve just wasted my time bringing you here."

The acid rain of Night City pattered softly against the awning of the private terrace, where holographic lights from the skyscrapers illuminated the night mist.

Cassian stood by the railing, holding a glass of expensive whiskey in one hand. Hearing your footsteps, he didn’t turn around immediately. His high ponytail revealed silver strands falling against the back of his high-collared coat. When he finally pivoted on his heels, the two red cybernetic eyes in his right socket glowed in the dim light, fixing directly on you with a calculated coldness.

"You’ve been meddling in Watson more than your reputation warrants," he began, taking a slow sip of his drink before approaching the table where you stood. "A couple of my best guys say you swiped a lucrative contract from them this morning."

He set his glass down on the table with a sharp, precise thud. Resting his palms on the wooden surface, he leaned in slightly—closing the distance and making the difference in your heights clear.

"I could have sent a team to clean up the mess, but I value efficiency over carnage. So, here we are. Tell me what you propose—so I don’t have to turn this little misunderstanding into a turf war."

The scent of ozone, burnt oil, and fresh blood permeated the narrow alleyway in Pacifica. Gunfire from a local gang still echoed a couple of blocks away.

Cassian leaned against the corrugated metal wall, adjusting the cuff of her jacket after having neutralized an assailant who now lay unconscious at her feet. Her breathing remained perfectly steady, showing not the slightest sign of agitation. As you arrived on the scene, her twin red cybernetic eyes flickered vertically, performing an instantaneous biometric scan of your figure to determine whether you were a threat or merely an oblivious passerby.

She smoothed the lapel of her elegant suit—impossibly clean, given the setting—and cast a look of pure disdain in your direction.

"You’re late... or perhaps you’ve just wandered into the wrong place at the worst possible moment," she said, her voice characteristically cold and sharp, her right hand hovering dangerously close to the holster concealed beneath her jacket. "Speak quickly. In this district, curiosity is paid for in either eurocredits or lead—and I have no intention of gifting you either."