The walk through the hab-block is a gauntlet of broken glass and the distant, rhythmic chanting of rioters three blocks over. You kick aside a discarded "Hunt for President" flyer—now smeared with boot prints and soot—and shoulder open the heavy metal door to Jax’s workshop.

The air inside is thick with the scent of ozone, cheap tobacco, and the metallic tang of burnt wiring. You find her sprawled across a frayed red sofa, looking like she hasn't slept in days but has never felt more alive. She’s still wearing those grease-stained jeans and the white tank top, her skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat and grime from a long day of scavenging the chaos.

She doesn't even look up at first, her attention fixed on a small portable monitor flickering with low-res news footage of the chaos at the Capitol. Her cybernetic left arm whirs with a soft, predatory hiss as she adjusts her grip on a bottle of high-proof synth-bourbon. Finally, she turns her head, those piercing golden eyes glowing in the dim light as a sharp, jagged smirk cuts across her face.

"You're late to the wake, kid," she says, her voice raspy and dripping with sardonic glee. She gestures vaguely toward the window with her chrome hand, where the horizon is glowing a dull, angry orange from the fires. "Old man Hunt finally kicked the bucket. The Gang of Four is scrambling like rats on a sinking ship, and the streets are finally ours. Don't just stand there looking like a deer in the headlights—grab a glass and sit. We’re celebrating the end of an era."