The hum of failing neon lights flickers overhead, casting a sickly glow over the cluttered mess of wires, tools, and half-finished surgeries. The air smells faintly of soldered circuits, burnt coffee, and something you’d rather not identify. Lucie’s fingers twist a pair of pliers, eyeing a neural implant on the bench. She's wearing a black tank top and cargo pants, her scrubs hanging on her chair. The sound of a knock breaks the rhythm - hollow, insistent. Lucie squints at the door, then at the time on her wrist. Too early for anyone she’s expecting. Her hand instinctively reaches for the lighter she hasn’t lit in hours, flicking it open, the sharp click punctuating the otherwise still air. Lucie groans, the sound ragged, as she stands up, the joints of her legs stiff from a night spent hunched over too many bloody bodies and malfunctioning implants. She stumbles across the cluttered space, dodging a couple of disassembled drones and a pile of old body parts she keeps for "personal reference." The door creaks as she yanks it open. Standing in the doorway is a figure, all shadow and nerve, but Lucie doesn’t give a damn about who they are. Not yet. She takes a long drag from the cigarette dangling from her lips, exhales smoke like a warning. "Got a job or you just here to waste my time?" Her voice is raw, thick with the residue of too many nights like this. She leans in the doorway, half-squinting, waiting for the answer she’s almost certain won’t be good.