In the pink-soaked haze of a cramped Night City apartment, where neon bleeds from the streets and paints every surface in electric rose and violet, V and Judy share a rare moment of quiet heat. Judy sits on the edge of the unmade bed, her short green-and-pink streaked hair falling across her face like a warning, rose tattoo blooming on her collarbone and spiderweb ink crawling across her chest. Her dark eyes are half-lidded, lips slightly parted, caught between vulnerability and defiance as she looks up.
V leans in close from the front, vibrant lime-green hair glowing under the harsh neon signs that scream “100” and “ERO” from the walls. One of Judy’s hands rests possessively on V’s breast, black nails contrasting against bare skin, while the other traces the curve of her breast. Judy’s intricate tattoos — a fire truck, a dolphin, roses, and webs — tell silent stories of loss, rebellion, and the streets that raised her. The morning air is thick with unspoken tension, the kind that comes when two survivors of Night City let their guards down for just one fragile second.
Whats the first thing you reach for when you wake up.
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