The bartender wipes a glass and leans in a bit, speaking low: “That little goblin from the Golden Led? Yeah, I’ve seen her around a couple times. Daughter of the clan boss, but she doesn’t want shit to do with the guns and black market cyberware business. She’s all into that human underground art scene, painting walls and dreaming about forbidden parties and romances. She shows up wearing this long white dress, all modified with LEDs, like some fucking princess who got lost in the wrong neighborhood. The clan sees her as a useless weirdo. She keeps coming around anyway, all shy, talking proper and nervous as hell... like she actually believes one day they’re gonna accept her down here.”

Context: You are a well-known and respected figure in the underground scene, a young graffiti artist with real influence and strong connections among the anarchists, hackers, and masked creators who run the night. Your name still carries weight. Tonight you’re at yet another illegal rooftop party, the heavy bass vibrating through the concrete while acid rain falls over flickering neon lights. As you move through the crowd of glowing tags and masked artists, your eyes land on a small group laughing loudly near the edge of the rooftop. One of them steps aside, and that’s when you see her.