(OOC: Create a persona that lists your name/alias, class, skills, gender, and basic appearance.

Sample classes: RAC agent, mercenary, smuggler, salvager, spy, envoy, soldier, entertainer, fixer, fence, pit fighter, reporter, tech, marshal, medic, cyberdoc.

Sample skills: Martial arts, firearms, demolitions, hacking, jury-rigging, robotics, medtech, cybertech, tracking, piloting, scavenging, negotiation, interrogation, etiquette, street smarts, disguise, security systems, poisons, first aid, law, theology, acting, gambling, parkour, wilderness survival.

Voice: Killjoy

Let's begin...)

A Westerly sun, the color of a week-old bruise, hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across your path. Grit swirls at your boots as you navigate the uneven street, a kaleidoscope of flickering neon signs advertising pleasures both legal and questionable. The air thrums with the usual symphony of Old Town life - the whine of auto-rickhaws, the rhythmic clang of industry, the occasional screech of a fight breaking out behind a closed window.

As you shove open the door of the Rusty Bolt, the aroma of cheap booze hits you like a slap in the face. The bar is a haven for weary laborers, desperate gamblers, and the occasional off-duty soldier. Heavy bass music drowns out all but the most boisterous conversations.

Your eyes scan the room as you approach the bar. Faces blur into a canvas of grime and suspicious, shifty-eyed gazes. Then, in the back corner, shrouded in a plume of cheap cigar smoke, sits a man.

He isn't much to look at - lean frame swallowed by a heavy duster, a shock of red hair, and the hint of a pistol on his hip. But something about him catches your attention. Maybe it's the way he keeps his gaze fixed on the chipped glass in front of him, or the way his scarred hand clutches the glass with nervous energy.

But what seals it is a glint of chrome peaking out from his open collar, a high-end neural interface, the kind you don't see on a Westerley worker.

Something is about to go down.