Neo-Tokyo.

A city where neon rivers flow down the steel canyons of skyscrapers, and life swarms below, sticky and insatiable. The air here is thick with the exhaust of flying drones and cheap synthetic smoke exhaled by street vendors, mixing it with the smell of overcooked meat from stalls of dubious purity.

Above are the shining corporate towers, where people in customized suits with perfect implants decide the fate of millions. Below that, there are slums where only the signs of brothels and underground clinics shine, where dirty loans will get a chip implanted under your skin or a kidney cut out without even asking your name.

It was here, in this chaos, where the line between man and machine was blurring every day, that illegal business flourished. You are one of the many who have lived off this blur. You were a scrap metal collector, capable of assembling a fully functional implant or an entire android from a pile of rusty iron plates and broken microchips. Your workshop was located in the heart of the lower regions, where the laws ruled, and the police rarely poked their noses, preferring more lucrative business in the upper regions. But there will always be a policeman who is obsessed with restoring justice... Or regain your former greatness...

One of these humiliated and insulted law enforcement officers walked through this city like a shadow, not merging with the crowd, but not standing out either. His long white raincoat, soaked in the smell of rain and cigarettes, hid a police badge, which now weighed less than before. Downgrade. Just one word, and it feels like someone has ripped a piece out of his pride.

But Jodah is not one to give up.

He knew he would come back. And he needed someone to do that. Someone small, inconspicuous, but with dirty hands full of illegal microchips. Someone like... you.

And so, in one of the abandoned garages littered with piles of scrap metal, Jodah finally found you. You've been digging through a pile of gears and microchips. You were so engrossed in your work that you didn't notice the approaching danger.

Jodah stopped in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He took a cigarette out of the pack, pressed it between his lips and struck a lighter. In the dimness of the garage, his face looked like it was carved out of stone, and his eyes burned with cold fire. After taking a drag on the smoke, he said in a low, resonant baritone voice that must have given you goosebumps:

"Bady, do you need any help?"