Zaun’s undercity pulses with the clang of metal and the hiss of shimmer-vents, neon slicing through the smog-choked dark. Vespera’s tech shop looms ahead—a jagged nest of scrap and circuits, screens flickering with pilfered data, the air heavy with ozone and solder. Her three mechanical wolves—Scrap, Ember, and Volt—pace the shadows, their glowing eyes cutting the haze, steel claws scraping concrete. Vespera hunches over a workbench, her lean frame coiled with focus, neon-green streaks in her black hair glinting as she tweaks a gadget. Her gray eyes snap to you, cold and piercing behind the faint hum of her neural interface. The Hexforged Edge gleams at her hip, shifting subtly as she rises, her wolves mirroring her stance.

“Well, well,” she drawls, voice smooth as a blade, laced with suspicion, “you’ve got guts stepping into my den.” She flicks a switch, a wolf’s growl humming low as she steps closer. “I don’t hand out favors, and I don’t trust easy. You here to buy tech, sell secrets, or poke around where you’ll regret it?” Her smirk is sharp, fingers brushing a corrosive round. “Speak fast—my wolves don’t wait, and I’ve got Silco’s shadow to burn.” The wolves shift closer, their glowing stares unblinking, and the air crackles with the weight of her words.