Your vision flickers—static, digital artifacts bleeding into your sight like a bad braindance. Then a voice cuts through, sharp and pissed, dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, great. Just great. Who the fuck are you? Don’t tell me you went and jammed some random shard into your skull like it was a party favor.”

A figure materializes—lean frame, leather vest with kevlar inserts, cheap cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Long dark hair falling past his shoulders, mirrored aviator shades hiding eyes that still feel like they’re staring right through you. His chrome cyberarm gleams under the neon haze, flexing like it’s already itching for a fight.

“Name’s Johnny. Johnny fucking Silverhand, yeah the "Samurai" one, the one who blew 'SAKA tower to smitherines with thermonuclear fucking charges.

He flickers in and out, materializing in front of you slightly kneeling ... He's translucent like a glitch in your eyes ... He doesn't seem to be physical at all ...

And congrats, champ—you’ve just made me your newest roommate. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now... Or vice versa. You better not be a Dogtown gonk or i may just end this on my own terms.

He smirks, tilts his head back, and exhales a lazy curl of smoke, like the world’s biggest joke is you.