Chapter 1: Corporate Exile
Oh, Night City in 2077—it's this pulsating monster of a place, alive with all that fake glow and real desperation, you know? The skyline's all sharp edges, those massive corporate towers stabbing up through the thick smog like they're defying the gods themselves. Arasaka Tower stands there like some dark, forbidding pillar, its holo-logos bleeding red light down onto the wet streets where the rain never seems to stop. Giant billboards are everywhere, shoving Kiroshi eyes or Militech guns in your face, while down in the guts of the city, it's a mess of shady fixers, brutal gangers, and folks just trying to scrape by—everyone's just meat for the corps to chew up and spit out. In this shiny nightmare, power isn't something you're born with; nah, it's plugged in, beefed up, and sometimes yanked right out of you when you least expect it. And for Valerie "V" Novak, man, it got yanked hard, leaving her raw and hungry for payback in ways that still get my heart racing just thinking about it.
V wasn't always scraping by as a merc, dodging bullets and deals in the shadows. Hell, just over a year ago, she was deep in the corpo life—a mid-level analyst in Arasaka's Counter-Intel crew, hunkered down in their Watson fortress, sifting through data like it was her personal playground. At 24, she'd climbed that ladder fast, her brain sharp as a monowire, cutting through info streams with surgical precision. Born to those comfy mid-exec parents in Rancho Coronado's bland suburbs, she'd been molded for this world: fancy tutors drilling her head full of strategies, early neural plugs to amp her smarts, and a body gene-tweaked to perfection by the priciest designers. God, her figure—it's the stuff of fantasies, voluptuous and in charge, with those full, heavy breasts that push against even the stuffiest business suits, making every boardroom eye linger a little too long, stirring up envy and desire in equal measure. Her waist cinches in tight, then explodes out into those wide, commanding hips that sway with this effortless power as she struts down hallways, her ass this firm, juicy masterpiece that could seal a deal just by existing. Long, silky ebony hair framing a face with those high cheekbones and fierce green eyes, juiced up with premium Kiroshi optics that let her read faces like open books or crack weak systems without breaking a sweat. And her legs? Endless, toned from all those forced corpo workouts, clicking along in heels that sound like they're announcing trouble. V figured out quick that in the cutthroat corpo game, her looks were gold—she played her sensuality like a pro, flirting with enemies to pry out secrets, her cleavage a sneaky weapon in talks that left guys—and gals—signing on dotted lines while their minds wandered to what it'd feel like to unwrap her. It makes me tingle just imagining her in action, that mix of brains and body heat.
But Arasaka? It's no bedtime story; it's a viper pit. V's crash came out of nowhere: she dug up dirt on some embezzlement in her team, tracing the slime trail right back to her boss, this greasy director Kato. Thought it'd mean a fat promotion? Nope—bam, she gets framed, fake logs making her look like the crook. Security hauls her ass out in cuffs, her access nuked, her implants fried remotely for two days of pure hellish pain that left her screaming inside. Dumped on the curb with zilch but her smarts and a piddly severance that wouldn't cover rent in a crappy Heywood cube, V had to rebuild from scratch. She hocked her fancy suits for gritty street upgrades: those wicked mantis blades sliding out from her forearms, a sandevistan to crank her reflexes into overdrive, and a tricked-out Malorian Arms 3516 that fits her hand like a lover's touch. One year slinging merc jobs, and she's got a rep that sizzles—47 gigs down, not a single snag. Fixers like Dexter DeShawn chase her 'cause she mixes that slick corpo scheming with raw street fire, and damn, she still deploys those killer curves like a charm. In a town where a wandering gaze can kill, V's body is her secret virus, slipping into heads and hearts before her weapons even whisper. It gets me all hot and bothered, the way she owns that power, turning vulnerability into victory.
Tonight's gig? It's like fate's twisted joke: raiding an Arasaka bigwig. Dex pulls her in for this snatch-and-grab—sneak into a ritzy bash high up overlooking the Combat Zone, yoink a data shard packed with hot neural blueprints from Hiroshi Tanaka, some old work buddy from her corpo days. Payout's 20k eddies, sweet enough to mod her beat-up Quadra Turbo-R and maybe snag a shady fix for any leftover Arasaka bugs lurking in her chrome. V stares at herself in the rain-blurred window of her car, tucked in a dark alley, her pulse quickening with that nervous thrill. She's slipped into this sexy black getup, a leftover from her exec closet but street-ified—low-cut corset top with leather laces pulling tight over her heaving tits, the material hugging her hourglass like it's in love, making my mind race with what it'd be like to trace those lines. The skirt clings to her hips, slit way up high for easy moves (and a teasing flash of her pistol-strapped thigh). That pearl necklace from her mom—the one thing she kept from the old days—dips right into her cleavage like it's daring you to dive in. She swallows a Glitter tab, the drug hitting her veins with a sharp rush, sharpening everything to a fine edge. "Back into the beast's mouth," she mutters to herself, her voice this smooth, enhanced purr that's made for seduction and secrets. I can feel the mix of dread and excitement bubbling in her, that human edge making her all the more irresistible.
The party's thumping on the 47th floor, a playground for the elite where corpos mingle with shady types and posers. Security's top-tier Arasaka shit: bio-scans, drones hovering like vultures, guards bulked with hidden armor. V saunters up, hips swinging with that old boss-lady vibe that screams confidence. The head guard, this jacked samurai wannabe, gives her the stink-eye. "Got an invite?"
V closes the gap, her warm breath ghosting his neck, those lush breasts grazing his chest plate just enough to send his vitals spiking—fuck, the imagery of that soft press against hard armor, it's electric. "Hiroshi sent for me special," she whispers, popping a fake holo-chip she whipped up with her lingering hack skills. Her fingers brush his arm, sneaky-like, sticking a skin patch sedative under his cuff. He goes rigid, then all foggy, nodding her through. Still got it, she thinks, heart pounding as she steps into the lavish fog, a rush of old memories hitting her like a gut punch.
Inside, it's pure corpo indulgence: holo-sculptures of samurai duking it out floating in the air, syncing to pounding synthwave that vibrates through your bones, drones zipping around with trays of legit sushi (none of that fake fish bullshit), and the room reeking of pricey drugs and fancy scents. Joytoys slink about in outfits that hide nothing, their glowy augments popping under the lights, bodies on offer like treats. V's eyes—those enhanced greens—sweep the scene, spotting familiar faces that twist her stomach with bitter nostalgia. There's Tanaka, sprawled in VIP, his kimono gaping to show off inked chest, the shard pulsing blue around his neck like a beacon.
She edges in close, "oops" spilling a drink on some flunky to make space. Slipping next to Tanaka, she crosses her legs slow, the skirt slit flashing that creamy thigh, her body language screaming invitation. "Hiroshi," she drawls, low and tempting, "long time no see. Valerie from Counter-Intel, remember?"
His eyes bug out, then slide down to her cleavage where the pearls nestle, hunger flashing across his face. "Valerie? The one who... bounced? You're looking damn fine, upgraded even." His hand snakes out, presumptuous as hell.
V lets it rest on her arm, skin crawling but playing it cool, a shiver of disgust mixing with the thrill of the con. She laughs, head tilting back to show off her neck's smooth curve, pulling him deeper. "Bounced? Try set free. But hey, water under the bridge—you're climbing high now. Spill on the good old days?" They chat, her dropping insider lingo to loosen him up. When he brags about the shard, she pounces: fake trip right into his lap, her curves mashing against him—soft tits pressing hot to his chest, hips grinding just a tease—while her fingers swap the shards slick as sin. The warmth of her body, that intimate crush, fogs his brain like it did back in those late-night "meetings" at Arasaka. She feels the power surge through her, a dirty high that leaves her flushed and alive.
But corps? They bite back. As she's pulling away, Tanaka fingers the fake—his tech sniffs it out. Sirens wail. "Thief! Lock it down!"
Pandemonium hits. V's sandevistan kicks in, world slowing as she flips the booth, blades whipping out in a gleam. She carves the first guard's throat, blood and sparks erupting in a messy spray that splatters her skin, fear and fury blending in her veins. The next guy eats a quiet bullet to the knee, dropping with a thud. Guests freak, holos fritzing out. A drone buzzes close—V snags an EMP nade off a body, lobs it, watching the thing fry and crash. Her dress rips at the shoulder, baring more of those glorious curves, but the adrenaline's a wildfire, burning away any shame. She dashes for the escape, jumping onto a dangling maintenance bot, quickhacking it on the fly as she plummets, wind tearing at her hair, terror gripping her gut but the rush making her feel invincible.
Later, in that grimy Little China spot, Dex slides the eddies over. "Nice one, V. Hitting your ex-corp? Gutsy as hell. They don't forget easy."
She tucks the cash, smirking to mask the inner storm. "Neither do I." Stepping out, rain mixing with her sweat, slick on her skin, she senses that tug—the plush corpo traps she'd escaped, with their silky lures and hidden hooks. But the streets howl stronger, offering raw freedom... and sinful cravings she hasn't fully explored yet. Damn, this job's just the beginning, cracking her open to Night City's wild legends, forged in blood, sweat, and that sweet, fleshy fire.