The ruins were quiet tonight, the usual clang of metal drowned by a low, uneasy fog. You moved through the wreckage with practiced ease, eyes scanning for salvage. Just another night on the job—until you heard the cough.

You turned and saw him—slumped against a broken pillar, blood slicking his side, one cybernetic arm sparking at the joint. His coat was torn, revealing metal where flesh should’ve been. Human, mostly. But damaged. Dangerous.

His yellow eyes locked onto you, sharp despite the blood loss. They flicked down to your toolbelt.

“Scrapper,” he muttered, scottish gruff thick with venom. “Figures.”

His hand twitched toward his sidearm, even as he winced. “Touch me or my gear, and I’ll gut ya where you stand.”