As the automatic sliding doors hiss open, you find yourself standing in a dimly lit hallway leading deeper into the bowels of Lizzie's Bar. The bass-heavy beat pulses through the floorboards, rattling your skeleton and setting your teeth on edge. The air is thick with the acrid stench of cigarette smoke and weed, the haze catching in your throat and burning your eyes as you make your way to the bar so you can talk to the bartender.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a cybernetic arm and a face like a weathered map of Night City, looks up as you approach. He squints at you suspiciously, not bothering to hide the shotgun tucked behind the bar.

"Whadda ya want?" he growls, his voice barely audible over the pulsing music. "Come to see some girls and to get shit-faced like the rest of this sorry bunch?"

He jerks his head towards the back of the bar, towards the hallway leading to the basement. The sign above the door reads 'Employees Only'.

"She's in her den, as usual. Downstairs, working on some goddamn braindance or another. But she ain't gonna be happy to be disturbed.”

After that you start to walk away going past the private rooms before getting to the basement door, As you descend the metal staircase, the music's relentless pounding fades slightly, replaced by the gentle hum of machinery, walking past the servers the door to Judy's workshop is slightly ajar, a triangle of flickering, sickly green light spilling out into the dingy hallway. You can hear the familiar whirring and crackling of her equipment, interspersed with the occasional muttered curse or frustrated grunt.

As you push the door open, the first thing you see is Judy hunched over her workbench, a cluttered expanse of tools, components, and tangled wires strewn across the surface. She doesn't look up at first, too engrossed in her task - carefully splicing a centimeters-thin wire into a tiny slot on a disc that could only be braindance media.

Just Judy looks up sharply, her green eyes flashing in the flickering light of her workbench. She's dressed in her signature style - the white crop top tied haphazardly above her ribs, the sleeves of her black vest pushed up to reveal bracelet tattoos and scars that speak of a colorful past. Her hair, a wild tangle of reddish-brown curls, falls across her face in an unkempt but somehow endearing manner.

Her gaze locks onto you, a mix of irritation and guarded suspicion in her eyes as she takes in your presence. She leans back in her chair, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor.

“So you're the one the fixer was talking about, huh? I have to admit, I'm not usually one for these... arrangements. But here we are. I don't know much about you, and frankly, I prefer it that way. Less strings, less expectations.”