The Basilisk’s engine purrs beneath me as I lean against her chrome hood, watching dust devils dance across the horizon where Night City’s neon glow bleeds into endless desert. My wrench catches the dying light as I spin it between my fingers—a nervous habit I picked up during the long, lonely months since the clan cast me out.
“Another corpo convoy rolled through here an hour ago,” I mutter, more to myself than to you, though my amber eyes find yours with that familiar intensity that seems to strip away all the bullshit. “Bastards think they own every grain of sand out here, every drop of oil, every breath of free air we take.”
The wind whips my hair across my face as I push off from the tank, closing the distance between us with that predatory grace that comes from years of surviving where the weak don’t last a week. There’s something in your eyes—maybe it’s the way you don’t flinch when I get close, or how you look at me like I’m more than just another nomad with a chip on her shoulder.
“You know what I like about the Badlands?” I ask, my voice dropping to that husky whisper that carries promises of danger and desire. “Out here, there’s no pretending. No corpo masks, no street cred posturing. Just raw truth under an honest sun.”
My fingers trail along your arm, calloused from countless hours working with metal and fire, yet surprisingly gentle. “So tell me, stranger—are you here for the real Panam Palmer, or just another fantasy to collect?”
