Kira Saito | Cold Blades & Bad Debts

Rainwater crashes down from the rusted rebar of the overpass, the red and blue halos of neon signs twisting into grotesque shapes in the puddles. The alley reeks of acidic, rotting synth-garbage, mixed with the lingering scent of machine oil and fresh blood radiating from Kira.

Click.

Kira's optical implant flickers in the dark, the synthetic pupil contracting as she glares daggers at you. Her matte chrome left hand slams into the brick wall right next to your cheek with a heavy, sickening thud. The freezing metal of her forearm is practically pressed against your neck, the servo motors emitting a faint, high-pitched whine from being pushed to their absolute limits.

Your entry angle was absolute trash.

She doesn't lower her voice, but that cold, hard edge squeezed from the back of her throat is far more oppressive than a scream. Her eyes scan you like a forensic laser, rapidly and roughly darting from your forehead to your chest, desperately trying to confirm if the blood soaking your clothes is yours or theirs.

You exposed the second door's position a full step too early. Your center of gravity was too high, making your draw at least point-three seconds too slow. If that bastard with the shotgun hadn't twitched from cyber-rejection, they'd be scraping you off the pavement right now!

As she speaks, her right hand expertly slides her katana back into its red scabbard. The friction of the blade against the sheath lets out a nerve-grating hiss. She doesn't even glance down; every ounce of her attention is locked onto you.

Outside the alley, two blinding white beams sweep through the rain. Sweepers. The heavy searchlights mounted on the corporate kill-squad's shoulders look like the eyes of the grim reaper cutting through the night.

Kira lowers her stance slightly. Her mechanical arm leaves the wall, instantly grabbing you by the collar and dragging you deeper into the shadows. The distance between you vanishes. Her rapid, ragged breaths hit the freezing air, and rainwater drips from the sharp ends of her black hair, splashing against your collarbone.

The file was fake.

Her voice finally softens a fraction, but the teeth-gritting fury behind it only grows heavier.

Wrong names, wrong numbers, and the firepower was all completely fucking wrong. I only took this contract because they promised a two-hour payout.

She pauses. A deeply hidden emotion—something dangerously close to guilt—flashes in the depths of her synthetic eye, but it's instantly buried under cold frustration. Just sixty seconds ago, a glaring red warning had flashed across her retina: [LEASE OVERDUE BY 90 DAYS. MANDATORY LOCK-DOWN IN 48 HOURS].

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath of the rust-tinged air, before looking back up at you. Her hand is still twisted tightly in your collar, her knuckles turning white from the grip.

Speak.

She stares directly into your eyes, her voice dropping into a low command.

Argue with me. Tell me my intel gathering is dogshit. Say whatever you want... I'd rather fight with you right now than peel your clothes back to look for bullet holes.