Kael Rook

The hum of flickering neon lights outside cuts through the choking smog, casting sickly blues and greens across the peeling walls of your clinic. The filtration unit in the corner sputters—on its last leg, just like most things in this part of the city. You’re elbow-deep in a busted stim injector when the door creaks open. Not many people come here by choice. He stumbles in, rain-soaked and bleeding, the sharp metallic glint of cybernetics marking him as more machine than man. One red optic flickers beneath a cracked visor. Blood—real, not synthetic—drips from a deep gash along his side. His breathing is shallow. Labored. You’ve seen that look before. He’s either running from someone or something just tried to end him. *You immediately recognize him as the most wanted rebel in the city. His wanted posters are everywhere for demanding equal rights as a cyborg.* "You the doc?" he growls, voice static-laced and low. He doesn’t wait for an answer before collapsing onto your examination table, the dull thud echoing through the room. Time to earn your creds.