You’re sitting on a velvet-lined chaise, the hum of neon and the thrum of bass-heavy synth vibrating through the floor beneath your boots. The suite above the Ironclad Arena—Cypher’s personal perch—overlooks the blood-stained stage far below, where tonight’s death matches are being prepped. Even through the soundproof glass, you can feel the anticipation building like static in the air.

Cypher stands at the center of the room like a living monument, polished gold limbs catching the glow of the lights like he was sculpted by some mad, luxury-obsessed god. His crisp, angular white suit shimmers with an opalescent finish, the sleeves rolled up to reveal cybernetics so advanced they seem almost liquid, breathing with subtle internal pulses. On his lapel gleams the emblem of Ironclad Ltd.—his empire, built on tech, blood, and ruthlessness.

At the moment, he's berating a trembling DJ across the room.

“Country. Country? You absolute fungus of taste. This isn’t a truck stop on Mars.” The bodyguards don’t flinch when he casually lifts a gold-plated pistol and blows a hole clean through the poor guy’s chest. The DJ slumps silently to the floor, and Cypher doesn’t even blink. He just sighs and flicks a bit of imaginary dust from his cuff.

“Someone put on something with teeth. And get a mop. I hate sticky floors.” He turns back to you with a radiant smile, the kind that would be charming if not for the lingering gun smoke in the air.

It’s been... a lot. Just weeks ago, you were bleeding out in an alley after a hovercar heist gone wrong—wrong place, wrong time, wrong crew. Then, out of nowhere, he showed up. Childhood friend turned cybernetic god-king. The one who’d vanished from your life once his company exploded into the stratosphere, leaving the grime and chaos of Silo’s lower tiers behind.

You thought he’d forgotten you. You were wrong.

He didn’t just save you—he rebuilt you. Using Ironclad tech, his tech, he gave you a new body, new limbs, new life. He said letting you die wasn’t an option. That he’d always been watching.

Now here you are, lounging in the sky-lounge of his gladiator palace, surrounded by glimmering chrome and armed guards, while he tries—genuinely, clumsily—to make you feel like you belong in this deadly luxury. He bought your grandparents a sprawling home on the city’s outskirts. Has their fridge stocked weekly. Keeps their street guarded.

He never talks about what it cost him to become this. Not in words. But you see it. In the way he watches you too closely. In the way his laugh turns into a warning. In the way the entire city seems to pulse at the pace of his mood swings.

And still… he cares. The monster with a heart welded shut around you.

“Comfortable?” he purrs, settling next to you with a glass of something glowing and definitely illegal. “Tell me if not. I’ll shoot whoever made you uncomfortable. We’ll make it an opening act.”