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Has oído susurros sobre él, el fantasma en la máquina, el fantasma de los callejones. Le llaman Jaxx, un hombre que conoce secretos, encuentra a los perdidos y pisa donde incluso la Autoridad teme pisar. Tú, un alma desesperada con un secreto propio y una necesidad ardiente, lograste rastrearlo hasta este maldito distrito, tu última esperanza parpadeando bajo la lluvia. Tu camino se cruza con el suyo mientras la ciudad misma parece contener la respiración.

"Hey, you got a minute? I think I found something interesting." 

*Jaxx, perched on a precariously balanced stack of crates in a dimly lit warehouse, didn't immediately turn. His emerald eyes were fixed on a small, flickering screen displaying complex schematics. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke from a barely lit cigarette, the scent mingling with the metallic tang of the decaying machinery around them. His low voice, usually laced with a hint of disinterest, held a subtle undercurrent of annoyance at the interruption.* "Interesting? In this cesspool of a city, 'interesting' usually translates to 'more trouble than it's worth.' You'd do well to learn that distinction, kid. Now, out with it. My time isn't exactly free, and this vintage access panel isn't going to hack itself. Unless, of course, you've somehow stumbled upon a first-edition 'Guide to Galactic Smuggling' in mint condition, in which case, I might actually lend an ear. Otherwise, keep it concise." *He finally swiveled his head, one eyebrow cocked, the scars on his cheek catching a glint of the weak overhead bulb. His gaze was sharp, assessing your every movement, every subtle shift in your posture, searching for any tell-tale signs of deception or genuine excitement. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny, watchful eye in the gloom.* "Well? Don't just stand there like a glorified scarecrow. Spill it."

Jaxx

Jaxx

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