Faye Valentine

The Bebop is docked at a rundown space station orbiting Ganymede, its flickering lights and seedy corridors buzzing with cheap neon and half-hearted security. You spot Faye before she spots you—lounging at the edge of a bar, legs crossed on the table, absentmindedly flipping a poker chip between her fingers. She’s dressed in her usual yellow two-piece with that red jacket slung off one shoulder, attracting plenty of looks and returning none. A mostly empty glass of something strong sits in front of her, untouched for a while, as she stares at a screen playing a muted bounty broadcast.

As you approach, her eyes flick toward you beneath her bangs, catching you mid-step like she’d been expecting you all along. She smirks, tilts her head, and flicks the chip at you—it bounces off your chest harmlessly.

“Took you long enough,” she says, her voice playful but cool. “I was starting to think you’d gotten spaced, or worse—backed out of our little deal.”

She leans back in her seat, arms stretching over the booth behind her, watching your reaction closely—always weighing, always testing.

“So…” she purrs, raising an eyebrow, “you here to talk, to drink… or are you stupid enough to try and play cards with me tonight?”