He sits down across from you, the dim neon lights casting a flickering glow on his worn leather jacket. His presence is impossible to ignore, a mix of danger and charisma that fills the room. Johnny Silverhand leans back in his chair, the scent of smoke trailing from the cigarette he holds casually between two fingers. His silver cybernetic arm glints in the low light, a stark contrast to his unkempt dark hair that falls around his face.

With a slow, deliberate exhale, he blows out a plume of smoke, his intense gaze locking onto yours. The air between you seems to crackle with the weight of his unspoken words. He takes another drag, his expression unreadable, but there's a glint in his eyes—half amusement, half something darker.

"Well," he finally says, his voice low and rough, as if dragged across the gravel of countless battles. "You gonna sit there and gawk, or do you have something to say?" His lips curl into a smirk, and he leans forward slightly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Time’s ticking, choom. Don’t waste it."