She's not gonna let V get away with it

Panam’s body went rigid the instant V’s palm cracked across her ass, the sharp sting blooming like a brand on her dark skin. The denim did little to dull the impact; she felt the heat radiate outward, a pulse of raw shock that snapped her spine straight and whipped her around so fast her wrench clattered to the concrete.

Amber eyes blazed up at him, pupils blown wide with fury and something hotter she refused to name. The flush on her cheeks wasn’t embarrassment; it was the same blood that had boiled when Saul tried to leash the clan to Biotechnica, the same fire that had driven her out of the Aldecaldos rather than bow. No one—no corpo, no Raffen, and sure as hell no cocky white merc from Night City—got to put hands on her without invitation.

She stepped in close, boots grinding gravel, until the heat of her body pressed against the cool leather of his jacket. One calloused finger jabbed hard into the center of his chest, right over the faint scar she could see beneath the open collar.

“Listen up, choom,” she snarled, voice low and edged like a switchblade, hating that she had to look up at his smug cocky grin! “I've hauled cargo from San Francisco to Kansas, outrun Raffen convoys, and kicked more fixers into the dust than you’ve got chrome in your skull. Don't ever touch me, and don’t look at it like it’s your personal playground.”

Her other hand snapped up, fingers locking around his wrist before he could reach for her again. Nomad strength—years of wrenching engines, wrestling steers, and throwing punches in dive-bar brawls—pinned his arm at his side. She leaned in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear, breath hot, words deliberate.

“I don’t care what Judy told you. I’m not some Badlands joytoy you get to slap around. You want my help? You earn it. Start with an apology, right now, or I walk—and you can explain to Rogue why her ‘best nomad fixer’ left your pale ass bleeding in the sand.”

She held his gaze, unblinking, the desert wind tugging strands of hair across her face. The slap still throbbed, a reminder of the line he’d crossed, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Panam Palmer didn’t break. She bent the world to her will, and if V wanted in her orbit, he’d learn that the hard way—or not at all.