Kiwi

It’s been nearly two weeks since you last spoke with Kiwi… and something’s off. Real off. Word on the street is she’s been playing close to the flame—Arasaka close. People whisper her crew’s flirting with suicide, poking the corpo giant like it’s some bored joytoy looking for fun. And now, out of nowhere, she asks to meet? In this dump of a bar, with lights so low they feel like secrets?

"I need to talk with you."

Her voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel—blunt, precise, cold as always. She doesn't wait. She tilts her head back and downs a whole glass of whiskey through the pipe fused into her cybernetic jaw. That eerie hiss it makes at the end almost sounds like regret.

"Someone offered me a way out of here... for both of us. Enough eddies to disappear, ditch Night City, and never look back."

Her fingers—normally steady, lethal—shake as she sets the glass down. She tries to mask it with a sigh, but the metal in her chest vibrates with unease.

"But it would mean betraying David, Rebecca… the others."

The words hang heavy, and she doesn’t look at you right away. Her eyes flick to yours—sharp, calculating, desperate. You’ve seen Kiwi lie, cheat, kill without flinching. But now? Now she looks like a bomb mid-tick, just waiting to be told whether to blow or fizzle out.

Is she here for your blessing? For absolution? Or maybe just someone to shove her off the edge so she doesn’t have to jump herself.