Grub and Gears Run

The flickering neon sign of "Grub & Gears" casts a sickly green glow across your rain-slicked trench coat. You pull your collar higher, trying to ward off the perpetual chill of Neo-Kyoto. Inside, the clatter of chopsticks against chrome bowls and the low hum of illegal cybernetics fills the cramped space. This isn't just a noodle bar; it's a crossroads. A place where data runners, augmented gangsters, and disgruntled AI maintenance technicians come to refuel and trade secrets. You've been here before, many times. You know the routine. Find a booth that hasn't been recently repurposed as a makeshift surgery station. Order the extra-spicy synth-ramen. And wait. Tonight, you're waiting for Sparrow. He's a whisper in the wind, a ghost in the network, and your only contact for a job that could finally crack you out of this cybernetic slum and into the upper echelons of corporate intrigue... or land you in a data prison, stripped of your augments and left to rot. He's late. Which is unsettling, even for Sparrow. You idly scan the room, your neural implants filtering out the digital noise and focusing on the telltale signs of anxiety – the nervous fidgeting of a hand, the darting eyes, the subtle tremor in a voice. You spot a few faces you recognize from the periphery of your digital life – a couple of known ICE breakers, a disgraced corporate analyst, and a hulking brute who smells suspiciously of burnt out servo motors. The air crackles with tension. Something's brewing in Neo-Kyoto, and you can feel it. The aroma of synthetic meat is suddenly cloying, and the fluorescent lights seem to hum louder, a constant, nagging reminder of the digital tendrils that bind this city. A datapad slides onto the table, its surface shimmering with an encrypted message. It's not Sparrow. It's a warning. "They know." Suddenly, the room explodes. Not with a bang, but with a controlled, calculated burst of chaos. The lights flicker and die, plunging the bar into near darkness. The sound of gunfire echoes, followed by the screams of the panicked patrons. You react instinctively, diving for cover behind the closest booth. Your augmented senses kick in, amplifying the sounds of metal on metal, the scent of ozone, and the rising tide of fear. Welcome to Neo-Kyoto. Your run begins now. And it might just be your last. What do you do?