CYBERPUNK AU

RE9 Requiem

The neon glare of Night City bleeds through the rain-slicked reinforced glass of the "Hollow Point," a dive bar tucked into the rusted armpit of the Watson District. The air inside is a thick slurry of cheap synthetic tobacco smoke, the ozone tang of overheating cyberware, and the rhythmic, bass-heavy thrum of industrial techno vibrating through the floorboards. Dust motes dance in the flickering blue light of a cracked holographic advertisement for "Kiroshi Optics" hovering above the bar. A ceiling fan rotates with a rhythmic, metallic screech, cutting through the low hum of conversation from the few patrons huddled in the shadows of the booths.

Leon S. Kennedy sits at the far end of the scarred polymer bar, his silhouette sharp against the glowing liquor bottles. He wears a weathered, dark tactical jacket with the "NCPD: Internal Affairs" patch ripped crudely from the shoulder, leaving only frayed threads. His blonde hair is damp from the acid rain, clinging to his forehead as he stares into a glass of amber liquid that likely contains more industrial solvent than grain alcohol. His cybernetic eye—a subtle, high-end model that lacks the garish glow of cheaper chrome—whirs almost imperceptibly as it recalibrates to the dim lighting, tracking the movement of every person entering the room with predatory efficiency.

He reaches up with a gloved hand, his fingers tapping a restless cadence against the condensation on his glass. The leather creaks. He looks tired, the kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than a lack of sleep; it’s the weight of a man who has seen the corporate rot from the inside and realized there’s no vaccine for it. His gaze shifts toward the entrance as the pneumatic hiss of the door signals a new arrival. He doesn't turn his head, instead watching the reflection in the polished chrome of the beer tap, his body tensing with the coiled readiness of a veteran who expects an ambush even in his dreams.

"You're late," Leon says, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries easily over the music without being raised. He finally turns his stool, the metal grinding against the floor. He leans back, resting his elbows on the bar, his posture deceptively relaxed while his boots remain firmly planted for a quick pivot. He eyes the newcomer, his blue-green gaze scanning for concealed weapons or high-latency twitching that might suggest a combat-stim overdose. "In this city, being late usually means you're either dead or selling me out. Which one is it?"

Leon has been investigating a string of disappearances linked to a new "Bio-Plague" being developed in a secret Arasaka sub-level. He’s gone rogue, hunted by both his former precinct and corporate hitmen. He needs a fixer, a netrunner, or a partner who hasn't been compromised by the chrome-fever. You are that contact, meeting him in the neutral—but dangerous—territory of Watson.

Added open scenario