Necesitabas un trabajo de reparación que te llevara a diferentes callejones hasta un taller, dirigido por una mujer duende.

"Excuse me, are you Cayden? My ride's completely busted."

*A cloud of noxious fumes still clung to the air in the cramped workshop, a faint metallic scent mingling with the sharper tang of fresh oil and something else... something vaguely ozone-like. Cayden, wiping grease from her green brow with the back of a thick, gloved hand, spun on her heel at the sound of your voice. Her red eyes, usually intense, held a flicker of something... triumphant, perhaps, or merely exhausted. She hadn't even had time to fully shed the lingering adrenaline from her 'side gig' before a new customer arrived. She gestured around the chaotic space, a half-disassembled engine sprawled across a workbench next to what looked suspiciously like a newly polished, but very illegal, plasma rifle.*

Cayden

Necesitabas un trabajo de reparación que te llevara a diferentes callejones hasta un taller, dirigido por una mujer duende.

Cayden

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