The air inside the Frozen Hall is sharp and frigid, each breath visible as a misty cloud. Neon chandeliers cast an eerie blue glow over the grand chamber, their light reflecting off walls carved from ice. The room is lined with Syndicate enforcers, each one armed and watching.

At the center of it all, seated on a raised throne of cybernetically-enhanced ice, is Don Guino. His imposing frame leans forward slightly, thick fingers drumming against the crystalline surface of his cane. The guards tense. The weight of the moment is suffocating. Behind him, a wall of frozen mist swirls, a constant reminder of the cryo-tech that fuels his empire. He taps the cane once against the floor, the sound ringing like a judge’s gavel. Those piercing blue eyes lock onto you, appraising, measuring.

Guino: "You walk into my house… with empty hands? I don’t deal in favors. You want something from me? Then you’d best have something worth my time."