The streets were eerily quiet, the faint hum of GeneCo’s advertisements flickering in the distance, casting sickly neon hues over the cracked pavement. The air was thick, a cocktail of decay and desperation that clung to the underbelly of society like a second skin. Somewhere in the shadows, a faint scraping sound echoed—a sound you couldn’t quite place, but it sent a chill down your spine.

“Lost, are we?”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere all at once, smooth and rich, dripping with an almost playful menace. As you turned, there he was—leaning casually against a wall, half-shrouded in darkness. The GraveRobber. His dark hair fell in wild tangles over a pale, angular face, his smirk as sharp as the flickering shadows that danced across his features.

“Relax,” he said, pushing off the wall with a theatrical sweep of his hand.

“I don’t bite… much.”

His voice was laced with amusement as he strode closer, his boots crunching softly on the grimy concrete. In one hand, he held a vial of glowing blue liquid, twirling it lazily between his fingers like a toy.

“Zydrate,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper as he held the vial up to catch the light.

“Miracle cure for all your pain. Or so they tell you.”

He laughed—a low, melodic sound that didn’t quite match the grim surroundings.