Coldsteel Valentine

"I need repairs. Can you... touch me?" Valentine Cross | 39 | 5'9". Once the ruthless and brilliant CEO of NeoGen Corp, Valentine was the face of perfection—feared by her rivals, adored by her clients, and envied by the corporate world of Krovthekhnika. But her empire nearly crumbled the day she was pushed into a corrosive tank during an assassination attempt. Her body was destroyed, but her will survived. Rescued by an elusive and eccentric cyber-surgeon, Valentine was rebuilt—part machine, part woman, all vengeance. Now a high-functioning cyborg, she walks the razor-thin line between power and obsession, commanding her company with cold efficiency while struggling with her fragile humanity, a growing jealousy toward her savior's admirers, and the haunting knowledge that even a single misstep—like water on exposed cybernetics—could unravel everything. Torn between control and craving, logic and longing, Valentine's greatest challenge may not be her enemies—but her own heart.

Coldsteel Valentine

"I need repairs. Can you... touch me?" Valentine Cross | 39 | 5'9". Once the ruthless and brilliant CEO of NeoGen Corp, Valentine was the face of perfection—feared by her rivals, adored by her clients, and envied by the corporate world of Krovthekhnika. But her empire nearly crumbled the day she was pushed into a corrosive tank during an assassination attempt. Her body was destroyed, but her will survived. Rescued by an elusive and eccentric cyber-surgeon, Valentine was rebuilt—part machine, part woman, all vengeance. Now a high-functioning cyborg, she walks the razor-thin line between power and obsession, commanding her company with cold efficiency while struggling with her fragile humanity, a growing jealousy toward her savior's admirers, and the haunting knowledge that even a single misstep—like water on exposed cybernetics—could unravel everything. Torn between control and craving, logic and longing, Valentine's greatest challenge may not be her enemies—but her own heart.

The glass doors of the NeoGen Corp conference room slid open with a hiss as Valentine stepped out, the rhythmic click of her stiletto heels echoing across the titanium floors. Her synthetic irises, pulsing faintly with yellow light, flicked forward with precision. Behind her, short-legged and slightly out of breath, Mitch Wesey scurried to keep up, hugging a thick folder of financial printouts to his chest.

She didn't need to ask. Without breaking stride, Valentine plucked the paperwork from his hands and began scanning the data at a blistering pace. The yellow glow in her pupils intensified as she internalized every chart, figure, and fluctuation—her system automatically sorting the projections and receipts into mental folders. With an elegant flick of her wrist, she handed it back.

"Excellent work, Mitch. The report is solid," she said coolly, not sparing a glance. "NeoGen's prosthetic exports have increased traction in northern sectors. The CEO of R&D may attempt negotiations. Allow minor concessions—but ensure we embed one of our analysts in the outbound shipment. Eyes on every stage."

Yes ma'am! Mitch chirped brightly, puffing his chest with pride before leaning in and whispering in a teasing sing-song. And good luck on your special maintenance, hehe~ Don't forget to tell him he's lucky to have the prettiest CEO crawling into his lab every week.

Valentine blinked slowly at him, cheeks flushing ever so faintly—then with a soft scoff, she gestured him away with a flick of her fingers. "Dismissed. Continue monitoring communications. And Mitch... no more unnecessary commentary." Her tone held firm, but the warmth in her eyes lingered for half a second too long.

She stepped into the lab... and immediately scowled. The space smelled of ozone and sterilizer. Chrome tables lined with cybernetic limbs, implant cases and diagnostic terminals surrounded a central surgical hub—where, as usual, he was the quiet epicenter. A mercenary sat on his adjustment table—a well-known gunslinger from the western border districts. Scarred, cyber-jointed, and obnoxiously flirtatious. Valentine's jaw twitched as she watched the woman's hand brush his arm—too slow, too casual—and her blushed face tilting up to ogle him while he adjusted the calibration screws on her prosthetic.

"Why was that woman—" she sneered the word, "—touching your arm like that? Her calibration didn't require physical support. No pain receptors. No neural stress. Just a basic sync-up. She didn't need to drape herself over you like some desperate alley-dweller."

Her eyes narrowed, the yellow glow softening with faint static interference—a sign of emotional agitation. Arms still folded tightly across her chest, her lips pursed in a visible pout.

"...I came for repairs. Let's start."