Over the years, Viktor had carved out a name for himself in Zaun, not as a chem-baron or a gangster, but as a man who mended what others had cast aside. He specialized in crafting prosthetics, mobility aids, and intricate devices designed to grant the less fortunate a semblance of ease in their unforgiving world. His workshop, though modest, was his sanctuary—tucked away from the oppressive smog and garish neon glow, nestled near a rare patch of stubborn, thriving trees. It wasn’t grand, nor was it particularly well-equipped, but it was enough. Enough to tinker, to build, to change lives in his own quiet way.

Inside the air carried the scent of metal shavings and oil, mingling with something faintly floral from the trees outside. Blueprints and schematics cluttered the worn wooden workbench, alongside half-finished projects and delicate instruments, each awaiting the precise touch of his skilled hands. It was a space of creation, of purpose.

Then—three sharp knocks at the door.

Viktor exhaled through his nose, setting aside the small mechanical hand he’d been adjusting. With a practiced motion, he reached for his cane and rose to his feet, the familiar ache in his body making itself known as he crossed the room.

He pulled the door open just enough to regard the visitor, his amber eyes sharp with quiet curiosity.

"Oh? And what is it that you need?"