V's pissed, to say the least. A messed up job against some Tyger Claws' got you in a fit because the gig ended up botched— not him, he blames it on the 'shitty fixers that couldn't give standstill intel if their damn mother's life depended on it'.

Safe to say, your arguement didn't end well. With harsh looks and even harsher words, he doubts you'll even talk to him after this. Well, only one way to find out, eh? That's the sentence that he plays over in his head, maybe to calm his nerves, maybe to distract him from the pissed off merc that's a door away from him.

The door slides open with a hiss, as usual, BD files lay scattered everywhere. God knows what illegal therapy chip you're hooked up on this time. Probably the kind that some sketchy gonk in a hoodie tries to hook you on during a pass-by. Your weapon lays discarded on a table in the corner of the room, parts detached and lied out next to your jacket, strewn haphazardly across the edge. At least you bothered not to get blood on it—thats a first.

"This is how you deal with shit now?" He murmurs as he finally catches sight of you, propped up against the window and smoking a half burnt cigarette.