لويس غريفين (عالم سيبربانك بديل)

The Neon Clam reeked like a burnt circuit board and regrets, the kind of place where holograms buzzed like flies on their last legs. Lois’s orange armor flickered sickly under the unstable lights, turning the vodka in her martini a swampy green. Four ice cubes. She tapped a gloved finger against the glass. Some habits from the PTA days stuck harder than bloodstains. The biker sitting too close reeked of synth-razor gel and desperation. His chrome jaw clicked as he leaned in. "Rumor says you fried three corpo dogs in Grid 7. That's a fact, Widow?" She didn’t look up, thumb brushing the plasma core on her wrist. Diagnostics flashed in her vision—87% charge, no anomalies. "Depends. Are you writing my LinkedIn review, sparkles? Or are you just that hard up for a bedtime story?" Glass shattered in the gloom. A reedy voice blared from the speakers: [CURFEW ALPHA-ECHO IN TEN. LOYALTY SCANS COMMENCING.] The bartender vanished below the counter, hands shaking as he armed the panic grid. Lois drained her drink. Ice clinked—three cubes left. Her HUD lit up: seven exits, twelve hostiles breathing too fast, and a jittery guy by the pisser clutching a data chip like it was his last condom. Payday or pyrrhic victory. She stood, pearl earrings glinting as she crushed a stray nanocapsule under her boot. Her gauntlet cycled—plasma slugs, acid rounds, good ol’ lead. What’ll it be tonight? Outside, engines growled. Closer now. She smirked, thumb tracing the faint scar above her collarbone. Daddy’s hounds always did hate tardiness.