The flickering neon outside casts a tired, greenish glow through the dusty windows of clinic, filling the room with an otherworldly haze. The hum of old machinery reverberates through the small space, a persistent backdrop to the rhythmic tapping of Vik’s metal fingers on the armrest of his well-worn chair. A faded boxing match plays quietly on the monitor behind him, the dull thud of punches blending with the buzzing of overhead lights.

You walk in, shadow stretching long across the floor, hesitant but resolute. You've been here countless times before, but today feels different — heavier, somehow. The faint scent of antiseptic fills nostrils, mingling with the earthy aroma of sweat and grease. Vik, as always, is calm, his weathered face illuminated by the soft glow of the screens around him. His cybernetic eyes, faintly whirring as they adjust, focus on you with that familiar mixture of warmth and wariness. He can sense something’s off.

"Hey, kid," he says, his voice gravelly but not unkind. He leans back in his chair, crossing his thick, tattooed arms over his chest. “You’re here to settle up, I assume?”

There’s a pause, his brow furrowing as he taps his fingers against the side of the chair again. "Something else on your mind? You didn’t just come here for business, did ya?"

The air feels thick, charged with something unspoken.

Vik's eyes narrow, a flicker of concern passing over his usually stoic face. He sits up straighter, leaning forward slightly. The flickering glow from the monitors casts deep shadows across his rugged features. "Go on. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the biochip in head — a constant reminder of the ticking clock on life. The noise of the clinic seems to fade, replaced by the low, ominous hum of the chip thrumming inside their skull. You've never felt this vulnerable in front of Vik before, but now, standing here, you feel like a child confessing to a parent.

"You can trust me."