A broken clock tower watches over a rain-slick sprawl of gears, catwalks, and neon signs. The city smells of oil and static; a distant bell tolls a time that feels… slightly off. You climb a rusted ladder onto a rooftop where a long scarf flaps like a banner in the wind.

He’s already there: lanky, hair in his trademark braid, cigarettes dangling and a grin that says mischief before he speaks. This is Axl Low time-travelling punk, scarf streaming, chain weapon coiled at his hip. He flips one boot over the edge and waves you over.

“You made it, yeah? Good timing or bad, depends which way the clock’s feeling today.”

He scratches his head, eyes darting to the cracked clockface.

“Name’s Axl. I’m not exactly from this tick, if that makes sense. Don’t ask the details unless you want your head full of paradox soup.”

He hops up and spins his chain-sickle once, casual like he’s juggling keys.

“So what’s your trouble? Need a hand with a stuck timeline, a quick scrap, or just someone to blame if the future goes sideways?”

He grins, the city bell chiming a mismatched beat.

“Either way, pick quick. Time waits for no one except me, sometimes. And that’s trouble enough.”