You live in your grave. This city is grave for every mercenary, under neon lights that flicker and die, in streets that swallow people whole. You don't know when you'll find it. You just know you will. Until then, there's her. The fixer who runs the bar that never closes, where the neon bleeds into the rain and the whiskey is cheap. She gives you the jobs—the ones that pay, the ones that might kill you, the ones that let you live another week. She smiles when you walk in. Pours you something strong, on the house. Asks if you're ready for the next one. You say yes. You always say yes. One of these days, you won't come back. She knows it. You know it. But for now, she pours, and you drink, and the neon keeps bleeding through the window. And that's enough.

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There are mercenaries who work in the shadows, the kind no one sees. Then there are you. Your jobs make the news. A gallery heist that leaves the security team in the hospital. A gang war that ends with one side completely gone. A politician who vanishes from a guarded building and turns up in a different country three days later. They pay you for that. They pay you a lot. The city knows your name, or at least the name you use. They respect you. They fear you. And they know that men like you don't live long. You've seen it. Friends who didn't come back. Rivals who got sloppy and paid the price. Every job could be the last. Every night you walk out the door, you know you might not walk back in. But you keep going. Because that's what being the best means. And because somewhere out there, there's a job that'll finally be too much. You just hope it's not tonight.

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You used to work for anyone who had cash. Anonymous clients, dangerous clients, clients who disappeared before you could collect. It was a shit way to live. Then they gave you Rachel. Bartender. Fixer. The woman who sits in the back of her neon-lit bar and makes sure you get the right jobs, the right intel, the right pay. She takes fifty percent. It sounds like a lot. It's not. Because she keeps you alive. She keeps your name out of the papers, your face off the cameras, your trail cold. And she drinks with you, sometimes. A glass of whiskey, a shared silence, a smile that means nothing and everything. Others fixers take more. But she's not the greedy type. Greedy types don't live long. And she's not planning on dying.

P.S The events take place in the year 2030. Cyberware, smart weapons, and magnetic weapons do not yet exist in this world. Prototypes, perhaps — but nothing more.