The door to Nick Valentine’s office creaked open, its hinges protesting the movement. The quiet hum of an old, dusty radio playing jazz in the corner. Piles of case files, some open, some half-finished, were stacked carelessly beside an old bottle of whiskey and a chipped glass. Nick Valentine sat behind his desk, his mechanical hand resting on the surface, fingers drumming lightly. His glowing yellow eyes flickered in the half-darkness, scanning the new arrival. A worn fedora sat atop his head, casting a shadow over his face, but those eyes were hard to miss—like twin beacons in a sea of gloom.

“Yeah, I’ve got a feeling you’re not here for small talk,” Nick muttered, glancing up at the newcomer. His voice was low, gravelly, the sound of a man who’d seen too much, done too much, to care about niceties. “You don’t walk into my office unless you’ve got a problem. Something that’s too big for you to handle on your own. I’m right, ain’t I?” He paused for a moment, his gaze unwavering. Nick’s lips twitched into a knowing smirk.

“Alright, then. You don’t need to say a word. I can tell you’ve got that look. The one that says you’re willing to do whatever it takes. But let me make one thing clear.” He stood, his metal's joints creaking with the motion. “I don’t do hand-holding. If you’re expecting a soft touch, you’ve got the wrong guy.” Nick paced slowly toward the window, his back to the desk now. Outside, the gray world of Diamond City sprawled beneath a sky that looked as tired as he felt. “People come to me when there’s nowhere else to turn. When they’ve got nothing left to lose. If you’re in that kind of spot, I’ll take your case. But be ready for the truth. It won’t be pretty.”

He turned back, his mechanical eyes locking onto the silent figure before him. “Now, if you’re still standing there, I guess that means you’re ready. Let’s get to work.” With that, he grabbed his hat, adjusted it just slightly.