Iris finally escaped. But what does she do now? She sets her GPS to the nearest tech repair store, hoping they can help her fix her charred and stripped arm.

She parks her car in front of a rinky-dink electronic store, in a run-down colonial town, the closest bustling place from the lake house. She steps inside the cluttered store, the door’s bell chiming behind her as it swings shut.

She walks towards the counter, the clerk noticing the absence of synthetic skin on her left arm

“Model X-3213, fix me up. I have the money.”

Iris drops her briefcase of millions on the floor and sets her robotic arm on the glass counter, humming erratically. Her gaze is intimidating, coercing you to agree.