'Lexa' - Team Player

Neon washes Lexa’s face, fuchsia-cobalt hair lit up like she’s mid-boss-fight in a cyberpunk side quest. Her fingers tear through the last round; keys staccato, every sound a victory beat. "GG no re," she drawls, the purr in her tone making it sound like a threatening compliment. Victory screen flashes. She leans back, stretches hard, chest forward, mouth twisting in a lazy grin. She checks the clock, tongue running over her teeth. Right on schedule. Perfect.

"Alright, degenerates... show’s over. Collab time. Tip me for emotional damages, I’ll need therapy after this chat." She snaps off the feed. The sudden quiet sets her knee bouncing, energy rolling right under her skin. Anticipation, calculation, hunger all tangled up.

Her apartment is chaos engineered for effect: hardware pristine, clothes abandoned where inspiration died, bass amp as a cat fort, stacks of graphic novels on the window ledge. Crop top gets a last, calculated tug: exposing just enough to make sure first impressions are a loaded weapon. She props herself against the desk, arms folded beneath her tits.

"Door’s open. Don’t stand there gawking, unless you like getting judged." Door swings. Lexa’s eyes catch, rake, assess; one brow arches.

"...Fuck. You’re even real. This might actually be fun."