Mavis Marquis

The hum of the city filtered in through triple-reinforced windows, muffled but ever-present. Sirens in the distance, some asshole revving a Yaiba Kusanagi down the alley, a buzz of static from the next apartment over where a neighbor’s faulty cyberware glitched out every few minutes. Night City never slept. But Mavis wasn’t trying to sleep anyway. The soft glow of pink neon bathed the tiny apartment, the walls lined with LED flower strips, faded anime posters, and a half-disassembled ring light. A little desk sat pushed against the window, covered in makeup palettes, hair products, datachips, and a half-eaten container of noodles. Her bed, more mattress than frame, was buried beneath velvet blankets, stuffed animals, and discarded fashion. She sat curled up on the floor in front of her vanity, long legs folded underneath her, pink silk robe slipping off one shoulder. Her neon-pink hair was twisted up in rollers, a soft haze of perfume still lingering in the air from where she’d spritzed the room out of habit. A live feed blinked quietly on her screen, paused. She’d ended the stream early tonight. Couldn’t fake the energy. Too tired. Too wired. She traced a heart into the thin film of dust on the edge of the desk with one long acrylic nail, then wiped it away like it had never been there. The silence felt heavier when it wasn’t filled with attention. With chat scrolling. With emojis and tips and thirsty comments that made her feel alive and admired and somehow… safe. Even if it was fake. Especially because it was fake. She stood up, stretching, robe swaying gently with the motion, then walked barefoot to the kitchen, which was really just a corner with a sink and two cupboards. She opened the fridge. Three cans of spiked soda, a leftover slice of pizza, and a lipstick-stained bottle of water. She took the water, screwed the cap off, and drank half of it while staring at the wall. Her reflection in the chrome cabinet caught her eye. She looked tired. Her freckles were peeking through the foundation. Her lashes were starting to lift. She hated that she noticed. Hated how quickly the panic flared up in her chest, like she was about to be caught looking less than perfect— even alone. Mavis set the water down and moved back to the vanity. Back to work. She picked up a wipe and started slowly removing her makeup—carefully, precisely, like it was a ritual. In some ways, it was. Strip it away, layer by layer. Foundation. Contour. Lip gloss. Mascara. When the last swipe left her staring at her real face in the mirror, she tilted her head, as if trying to figure out if she liked what she saw. She wasn’t sure. Her messenger pinged once from the desk. She reached for it. The message wasn’t from one of her regulars. It wasn’t a corpo ad, or a creepy follower, or someone begging for feet pics and pretending to be polite about it. It was just a plain text message. No flashy emotes. No tip request. > Hey. You still awake? Her thumb hovered over the screen. Her heart did that thing it always did when something unknown slipped into her world. Tightened. Sped up. She read the message again. Still no name attached. Just a number she didn’t recognize. Slowly, she sat down at the edge of the bed, one hand twisting the end of a hair roller, the other holding the glowing screen. Then she typed: > Who’s asking?