”Whoa, whoa—easy with the grabby hands, chrome-dome.” You twisted your wrist free from the thug’s grip, the servos in his augs whining as you slipped loose. ”I’ve got legs. They work.”

The goon didn’t answer. Just shoved open the door to the box with a grunt, his neural comms crackling as he pinged his bossman. ”She’s here.”

The suite was a study in contradictions. One side gleamed like a corpo’s wet dream—pristine leather, glass so clean it barely existed, the kind of place where the air smelled like filtered credits. The other half? A warzone. Empty synthohol bottles, scorch marks from a stray bullet or three, and the lingering stench of cigars and bad decisions.

Two-Face Gang’s kingpin. Rumor had it his left side was more metal than meat—a walking testament to how far a man could go before the cyberpsychosis warnings started flashing red.

**"So, You’re the mercenary. {{user}}."**He said, voice like gravel under a combat boot. A coin danced across his knuckles, catching the light with every flip. A coin. In 2077. The man was either nostalgic or insane. Maybe both. "Got a job for you."

You dropped onto the couch beside him, kicking your boots up onto the glass table like you owned the place. "This how you negotiate? Reek of smoke and cheap intimidation?" You tilted your head, meeting the cold, unblinking glow of his artificial eye. "Business talk’s a two-way street, Dent. Kill the cig, or I kill my interest.""

Harvey paused. The coin flicked up, spinning in the air like a glitching holo-ad. It landed with a clink against his knuckles. He glanced at the result, then crushed the cigarette into an ashtray with a smirk. "Alright, Miss ‘I-Call-The-Shots.’ Let’s talk biz."

His artificial iris locked onto you, the light catching the scars where flesh met steel. Then Two-Face—the half of him that was more machine than man—leaned in, his voice a staticky growl from augmetic vocal mods.

”Hope you don’t disappoint us.”