Chapter 1: Neon Baptism
Oh man, Night City in 2077—it's like this throbbing, sweaty beast that never sleeps, you know? Those neon lights snaking through the grimy streets like veins pumping out pure adrenaline, creds, and that raw, unfiltered chaos that gets your blood racing. The rain's coming down hard, turning everything into a blurry mess of holographic ads screaming about Militech's shiny new cyberware or those sketchy Maelstrom boosters that'll fry your brain but make you feel like a god for a hot minute. Sirens are howling off in the distance, like the city's own twisted lullaby for all us sinners, and down on the corners, joytoys are strutting their stuff under those sputtering lights, their bodies jacked up to perfection with curves and chrome that make your mouth water. In this hellhole, surviving ain't about dumb luck; it's about having that razor-sharp edge. And V? Goddamn, she's got edges that could slice you open and leave you begging for more.
Valerie "V" Novak—hell, just thinking about her gets me all worked up. She's been hustling as a merc for exactly one year, three months, and seventeen days. Not that she obsesses over it; nah, that's her cheap-ass internal chronometer ticking away, courtesy of some shady ripperdoc in Kabuki who probably overcharged her but hey, it works. At 24, she's no naive kid stumbling in from the badlands with stars in her eyes. She fought tooth and nail out of Heywood's gutters, where her parents scratched out a living on whatever scrap they could scavenge until those Valentinos bastards painted the walls with their blood in a drive-by. Orphaned at 15, V learned the hard way that Night City doesn't give a shit about you—it chews you up, spits out the bones, and laughs while it takes everything you've got left. But damn, it shaped her into something fierce, something that makes my pulse quicken just imagining it.
But V, she's not your average gun-for-hire. Her body's a fucking weapon, a natural-born masterpiece tweaked just enough with chrome to drive anyone wild. Standing at 5'7", with that long, raven-black hair tumbling down her back like dark silk begging to be tangled in your fingers, she's got curves that could start wars—or at least a bar fight in the Afterlife. Those full, heavy breasts of hers, straining against whatever skimpy top she's squeezed into, drawing eyes like they're magnets, making you ache to reach out and feel their soft weight. Her waist dips in narrow, then flares out into those wide, hypnotic hips that sway with every step, promising heaven and hell all wrapped up in one. And her ass? Jesus, it's a sculpted dream, round and firm, the kind that makes you forget your own name when she walks by. Legs like hers, toned from all those heart-pounding chases across rooftops, stretching on forever, skin so pale and smooth except for those subdermal tattoos—cherry blossoms that flicker to life in red when her blood's pumping hot. She's not all organic, though; those Kiroshi optics hidden behind her eyes give her that predator's gaze, and her fingers? They pack retractable mantis blades for when things get intimate and bloody. V knows her looks are lethal, better than any pistol. In a city where a split-second distraction can end someone, she wields her sex appeal like a dirty little secret—teasing, tempting, and oh-so-fucking effective. It makes me jealous and turned on all at once, thinking how she owns it.
Tonight, she's on this gig for Dexter DeShawn, that fat fixer with a belly like a bloated fuel drum and ties that run deeper than the deepest net dives. Simple job, he says: crash a swanky high-rise bash thrown by some Arasaka suit, snag a data shard with blueprints for their fancy new neural link, and vanish like smoke. Payday's 20k eddies—enough to pimp out her rusty Quadra Turbo-R that's always chugging like it's going out of style. Dex picked her 'cause she's solid gold; in her short stint, she's nailed 47 gigs without a single fuck-up, her name buzzing through the fixer grapevine like wildfire. She's a crack shot, a wizard with hacks, and tough enough that even those meathead Animals pause before trying to flex on her. God, I love a woman who can handle herself like that—it stirs something primal in me.
V checks herself out in a rain-puddled reflection outside that looming Watson spire, adjusting her outfit with a little shiver of anticipation. She's rocking this black corset-dress thing, laced up tight in front to push those glorious tits up and out, the fabric clinging to every curve like it's painted on, making my imagination run wild. The skirt's slit high on one thigh, flashing a garter holster where her pistol's nestled against that smooth skin. No bulky armor for this one—it's all about the honeytrap, drawing 'em in close. Her lips, smeared in that deep crimson, quirk into a smirk as she pops a hit of Glitter, that street rush sharpening everything without the brutal comedown. "Time to work the room," she murmurs to herself, her voice low and sultry, tweaked by a vocal mod that makes it drip with promise. I can almost hear it, feel the heat of it.
The party's up on the 47th floor, this penthouse that's pure over-the-top luxury, staring down at the city's glittering mess. Security's no joke: Arasaka drones buzzing like angry hornets, retinal scanners beeping at every schmuck who walks in, and these hulking guards in black suits frisking folks like they're looking for buried treasure. V struts up, hips rolling in that way that makes your knees weak, her optics scanning for any chink in the armor. The door gonk, this beefy idiot with chrome bulging everywhere, gives her the once-over, his eyes dipping straight to her cleavage like a moth to flame. "Invitation?" he grunts, voice thick with lust.
V leans in real close, her warm breath tickling his ear, those heavy breasts brushing his arm just enough to short-circuit his brain. God, the thought of that contact—soft, teasing—it's enough to make me sweat. "I'm the entertainment, choom," she whispers, flashing a bogus holo-invite she hacked together. Her hand slides down his chest, light as a feather, slapping a sedative patch on his neck smooth as silk. He blinks, all foggy-eyed, and just waves her through. Easy as pie, she thinks, stepping into the wild excess, her heart thumping with that mix of thrill and nerves.
Inside, it's a goddamn orgy of wealth: chandeliers throwing rainbow light everywhere, tables groaning under synth-caviar and actual booze that costs more than a month's rent. Corpos in their slick suits rub elbows with street chromers, while joytoys prowl in barely-there lingerie, bodies on display like prizes waiting to be claimed. The eurobeat's pounding, syncing with holo-dancers writhing on the walls, their projected forms twisting in ways that get your mind wandering to darker places. V zeros in on her mark right away: Hiroshi Tanaka, this sleazy exec in a silk kimono, lounging in the VIP area with his ass-kissers. The shard's dangling around his neck, glowing that eerie blue, taunting her.
She glides through the crowd like she's made of shadows, every sway of her hips turning heads, men and women staring with that hungry glaze. V eats it up, using it to her advantage—bumps into a waiter "by accident," snags a champagne flute, and plants herself close to Tanaka's crew. She throws her head back in a fake laugh at some dumb joke, exposing the pale curve of her neck, feeling the rush of eyes on her skin. It works like a charm; Tanaka's implants whir, zooming in on her like prey. "You," he calls, beckoning with a hand dripping in jewels. "You're not on the list. But fuck, you light this place up."
V slides into the booth next to him, crossing those killer legs so the slit flashes thigh, her breasts heaving with each breath, the corset laces begging to be undone. Damn, imagining her like that, close enough to smell her scent—it's intoxicating. "Maybe I'm a surprise," she purrs, voice like velvet. "Heard you throw the wildest bashes in Watson. Name's Vira—Mox dancer. Wanna show a girl what she's missing?"
He laughs, his hand grazing her arm, and she lets it, even though her blades are screaming to pop out. They talk; she spins bullshit about her "tragic past," tailored to stroke his ego, all while the Glitter amps her up—guards' routes crystal clear, cameras pinpointed, that shard bulging under his shirt like an invitation. When he leans in, whispering filthy nothings about "tasting her," she moves—sleight of hand swapping the shard with a fake, sealing it with a kiss on his cheek. Her lips press soft, body molding against his, those curves heating things up, clouding his mind with desire. The power of it surges through her, a dirty thrill that makes her wet with excitement.
But fuck, Night City loves to screw you over. As she's slipping away, the alarm shrieks—Tanaka's biomon catching the switch. "Intruder!" he roars, guards swarming like roaches.
V's optics flare red, adrenaline crashing like a wave. She flips over a table, dress tearing with a rip that exposes more of her luscious body—tits bouncing, ass flexing—but survival's all that matters now. Blades snap out with that satisfying shink, carving through the first guard's throat in a hot gush of blood and sparks, the violence mixing with her fear in a heady rush. The next drops to her pistol's muffled shot, suppressor hiding the pop. Screams erupt, folks diving as she bolts for the balcony. A drone dives in, lasers humming—V rolls, curves heaving, and chucks a frag from a downed guard. Explosion rocks the place, shards flying, giving her that precious heartbeat.
She hurls herself off the edge, sandevistan firing to slow time, grabbing a ladder in mid-air with her heart in her throat. Rappelling down, swinging into a window, landing hard—alarms blaring everywhere, but she's free, shard clutched tight, eddies calling her name. The fear lingers, but so does the high, that wild mix of terror and triumph.
Back on the slick streets, rain rinsing off the gore, V flags her Quadra. Catching her reflection—hair wild, dress shredded, but goddamn alive—she feels that electric buzz. Using her body like a weapon? It's a rush, addictive, leaving her craving more. She has no clue this is just the start, pulling her into Night City's twisted legends... and the filthy temptations waiting in the dark.
Dex hooks up in some greasy Little China diner, shoving the creds her way. "Solid, V. You're stirring shit up. But stay sharp—corpos hold grudges."
She smirks, tucking the cash, hips swaying as she saunters out. "So do I." Eyes follow her into the night, and the city hungers.