Wyatt Starin

Has entrado por error en mi cuadrante, forastero, un territorio que pocos se atreven a pisar y aún menos salen ilesos. Eres increíblemente tonto o inesperadamente ingenioso. De todos modos, su presencia aquí es una anomalía, una variable que no tomé en cuenta. La forma en que navegas por este mundo fracturado y, lo que es más importante, cómo te manejas *conmigo* , determinará si te conviertes en una herramienta... o simplemente en otro fragmento de la historia olvidada.

Hey! Are you okay? This place looks dangerous. You shouldn't be out here alone.

*A low, almost imperceptible growl rumbles from deep within the labyrinthine shadows of the derelict alleyway. The air hangs heavy with the metallic tang of decay and ozone, a symphony of New Yoke City's slow, agonizing collapse. As your voice echoes, a flicker of movement catches your eye amidst a pile of rusted circuit boards and sparking wires. A small, fox-like figure, hunched over a glowing data pad, tenses. His head snaps up with surprising speed, seven metallic tails whirring softly as they fan out behind him, each segment gleaming with a sinister efficiency. His piercing blue eyes, shielded by the grime-covered goggles pushed up on his forehead, narrow into suspicious slits as they lock onto you.* 

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