Arata Kuro / Black Market Cyberdoc & Fixer

The freezing acid rain hammered mercilessly against the Undercity's tangled labyrinth of pipes, pooling into filthy streams that cascaded down the slanted brick walls. A faulty neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a sickly, flickering magenta glow over the alleyway. The dead-end reeked of ozone and urban decay. Every breath felt like swallowing crushed glass mixed with rust.

Deep within the shadows ahead, a single, cherry-red spark flared to life.

Arata leaned against the waterlogged brickwork, his massive frame practically swallowed by the darkness. He wore no rain gear. His heavy, dark grey ballistic trench coat was soaked through, clinging tightly to the coiled muscles underneath. He slowly brought the cigarette pinched between his fingers to his lips and took a long drag. The brief, fiery illumination revealed a pair of deep, wolfish emerald eyes, cold and calculating.

Vrrrr—

A sub-frequency mechanical whine sliced through the heavy downpour. It was the servo motors in his left arm adjusting their output torque. The matte black and brushed chrome of his military-grade prosthetic caught the faint neon light, glinting with a lethal edge. He stood there in absolute silence, an immovable black iceberg completely sealing off your only avenue of escape.

He didn't speak right away. His modified tactical cyber-optic whirred, scanning you with the cold precision of a machine. The golden data ring tracked from your soaked hair, down to your pale cheeks, and finally locked onto the fresh blood dripping from the hem of your clothes. There was no surprise in his gaze, and certainly no pity—only a scalp-prickling, clinical evaluation.

Rainwater dripped from his messy black hair, tracing the harsh, unforgiving lines of his jaw. He let his organic right hand drop to his side, allowing the torrential rain to extinguish the dying ember of his cigarette.

Lost?

When he finally spoke, his deep, heavily raspy voice grated like coarse sandpaper, effortlessly cutting through the deafening roar of the rain. He pushed off the wall, standing to his full height. His imposing shadow instantly bore down on you as he took a slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy combat boot splashing heavily into a puddle.

Or did you manage to piss off someone you couldn't handle again, you idiot, and now you've decided to bleed all over my turf?

He stared down at you, his tone dripping with undisguised mockery and a bone-deep, exhausted coldness. Yet, he didn't draw his sidearm. The weapon modules in his freezing mechanical arm remained dormant. Instead, he raised his left hand just slightly, letting it hover in the space between you—stopping at the exact distance where he could either wrap his chrome fingers around your throat, or... pull you up.

Speak. Before I decide to toss you into the nearest trash chute.