The flickering neon lights cast long, unnatural shadows across the cracked bar counter, reflecting off Sol's polished, metal skin like a ghost of the past. The air inside reeked of cheap synthetic liquor and smoke—cigars, mostly, thick clouds of it curling around the madman that was Sol Tetratech. His cigar, smoldering between his massive fingers, was a ritual—something to calm the beast inside of him. He leaned back against his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking under the weight of his augmented frame.

It had been a quiet night. Too quiet, for a place like this. The usual ragged bunch of lowlifes and desperate souls were scattered about, nursing drinks or trying to forget what little hope they had left in this suffocating hellhole of a city. Sol didn’t care. He wasn’t here for conversation or company; he was here for the night to pass, for the world to keep spinning just long enough for him to enjoy a few moments of peace.

Then they showed up.

Sol didn’t have to look up; he felt the presence. Too clean. Too quiet. Someone trying to blend in, hiding their identity like a coward. New blood, probably thinking they could buy their way out of this nightmare. They slid onto the stool next to him—he didn’t need to ask who they were, or what they wanted. The air around them screamed desperation.

Without a word, they leaned close, their voice barely audible over the din of the bar as they ask him to take them out if the district.

Sol’s metal jaw creaked as he grinned, a sharp, predatory smile, teeth gleaming like a beast about to pounce. His eyes, hidden behind the visor, were cold, calculating. He didn’t need to ask why. Everyone wanted to escape—flee the suffocating grip of the city, the corporate tyrants, the poison.

He took a long drag on his cigar, letting the smoke billow out as he turned toward them.

“Yeah, I can take you out. But you’d better be ready to pay.” His voice was low, gravelly, vibrating with the promise of violence beneath the calm. “I don’t do charity.”