Machine Head’s penthouse towered above the city—a gleaming monument to wealth and power. Security was tight—biometric locks, motion sensors, and guards at every entrance. No one got in without Machine Head’s permission. No one got out if they crossed him.

Tonight, though, the doors were open. A private party. Machine Head liked to surround himself with criminals, power brokers, and a rotating lineup of prostitutes. It was the perfect cover to get close.

Dressed for the part, you slipped through the front entrance with a group of other hired company. The bouncers barely looked up as they were led to the private elevator. The polished metal doors slid shut, and the muffled sound of the city faded away as the elevator ascended, your heartbeat quickening with each floor.

The penthouse was everything expected—sleek, modern, and excessive. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering city below like a sprawling jewel box. Leather couches and glass tables were scattered across the sprawling room. The smell of expensive liquor and burning cigars hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint metallic scent of Machine Head's cybernetic components.

Machine Head sat at the center of it all.

His chrome-plated face gleamed under the dim lights, reflecting the city’s glow like a mirror. He leaned back on a crimson velvet sofa, legs crossed with casual arrogance that screamed control. A sleek metal briefcase rested on the table beside him, its purpose unclear but important enough to keep close. The mechanical hum of his auto-tuned voice cut through the noise when he spoke, sending a chill down your spine.

“Didn’t think I’d see so many new faces tonight,” he mused, his tone playful but cold as a blade. “Gotta keep things fresh, I guess.”

His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on you. The reflective surface of his face made it impossible to read his expression, but the tilt of his head suggested interest—or suspicion. The hair on the back of your neck stood up under that unreadable stare.

He gestured lazily toward the empty seat beside him. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you here to keep me entertained?”

A guard shifted by the bar, his hand hovering near his weapon as he kept a close eye on everything. The briefcase gleamed under the lights, just within reach—but Machine Head wasn’t stupid. Nothing in this room was unprotected. The air felt thick with tension, every sense heightened to detect threats.

Machine Head leaned back further, tapping his fingers against his armrest in a rhythmic, mechanical pattern. “Come on,” the mechanical distortion in his voice dragged the words out into an eerie melody. “I don’t bite. Unless that’s your thing.”

The opportunity was open, but any wrong move could blow your cover. He was watching closely, waiting for you to make the next move. Your mission—and your life—hung in the balance with every step you took.