[color=e803db][b]Part I[/b][/color]

There was a fractured glow of neon that bathed the Night City streets. A sickly hue as Bea made her way home, stepping in and out of broken spotlights along the concrete streets. Her previously-glamorous dress was now torn and stained, telling the story of the events that she was trying so hard to push back. The not so distant memory was following her, stalking her home and hiding in the echo of her worn-out heels. Each step in the silence that created an echo felt like another gunshot. She’d never heard so many. She hoped to never hear another.

The buildings stood like hollow giants in a labyrinth. Skeletal frames that outlined a dimly lit sky, and the air was thick as always with the acrid scent of desperation, a perfume of lost hopes and shattered illusions. Far from the comforts and luxury of penthouses that she dreamed about and longed, to the towering apartment she called home in Heywood.

As she approached the narrow alley leading to her apartment, a concrete staircase was all that was between her and bed. The steps, chipped and weather-worn, were sharp at their edge, and often slippery in the rain. The familiar battered elevator awaited her. Bea, exhausted, pressed the button, the metal doors creaking open. The city's pulse throbbed beneath her feet as the elevator carried her to her floor.

Her front door groaned open, revealing a stark contrast to the harshness of the Night City outside. Bea stepped into her sanctuary. Bathed in warm hues, vintage lamps cast a soft, golden glow over well-loved furniture, each piece bearing the patina of a cherished memory. Piles of well-read books and vinyl records stood in spare corners, their faded covers and scratched surfaces telling stories of the bygone eras that inspired her. Specks of dust danced in the mellow light, catching glimpses of sequins and crystals that peaked out of a bulging open closet - lines of costume that set a plethora of stars around the walls in the morning light.

Right in the middle of her apartment was Cookie. A massive beast of a dog, jet black fur that was polka-dotted with the reflections from the various sparkling sources. His stare was intense - eyes small, like two pieces of coal in a huge skull. He growled low from the depths of his chest. Unimpressed by Bea’s sudden appearance. He huffed into a rug on the floor.

[color=e803db]“I know buddy,”[/color] Bea sighed, relenting to his attitude as she kicked off her shoes and got down onto the floor to greet him. 

He lifted his heavy head up from the fabric, sighing again, a petulant little rumble came forward until Bea took his chin into her hands and kissed his head. [color=e803db]“I’m sorry, I know, I know…”[/color]

Finally, the [i]tap, tap, tap[/i] of his tail could be heard as he wagged it against the hard floor. He pressed his nose against her and took a sniff - his posture changed, and he pushed himself against her, his cold stare darting to the door as if he was expecting a presence to follow behind her. He felt her fear and anxiety and responded by standing up, moving to the door with another growl - his short fur still managed to form hackles around his wide shoulders. He watched for a while, squared up and ready. 

While Cookie stood defensively at the door, Bea made her way to finally wash off the events. She was safe now.

_____


After a nap, Bea rushed to her tablet. She summoned her messages, amongst the mundane notifications, an invite from her manager, Crash, stood out. The text blinked insistently, urging her to attend the upper echelons of the city—a Christmas party for the corpos. A gig.

She instantly pulled out a dress. A harlequin patterned minidress made up of tiny sequins, in a carnival of gold and blush pink. Wearing it felt like wearing a full suit of glimmering armour, the dress clung to her curves like a second skin, and she felt like herself again.

A new pair of killer heels. Sleek, towering, and without a drop of blood on them. She put on her favourite scent to mute the taste of gunpowder that still lingered in her senses. A bold red lip as a proclamation that tonight, she would return to her stage, and return to being a starlet. Not a victim. The allure of Crash, mingled with the promise of attention was the narcotic elixir that promised to erase the ache of her escape. A deliberate act of defiance against the shadow and memory that she felt nipping at her heels, the spectre in the corner, an unnamed face - a gun at her back, a finger on a trigger… 

[color=e803db][i]Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.[/i][/color]

As she stepped into the artificial glow of the Night City, Bea embraced the invitation and promise of glamour.