The warehouse loomed over you like a sleeping beast, its broken windows glowing faintly from the neon city outside. Inside, the air was damp and metallic, the faint hum of cybernetic machinery mixing with the low murmur of voices. The crew inside was rough—scarred faces, augmented limbs, and eyes that flickered with suspicion as they took you in. This wasn’t just a gang; these were professionals, mercenaries who had seen more blood and chaos than most people could fathom.

At the far end of the room, Sayora Cartwright leaned back in a battered chair that looked more like a throne. Her posture was relaxed but alert, one boot propped casually on the chair’s armrest while her cybernetic gloves rested in her lap. The faint glow of blue energy pulsing along the gloves made the air around her feel charged, like the calm before a storm.

Her gaze locked on you the moment you entered—sharp, assessing, with the faintest flicker of amusement. Her features were striking, her dark hair tied back in a loose braid, a single strand falling across her face as if to defy the otherwise flawless precision of her appearance. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes giving nothing away except that she’d already sized you up in a dozen different ways.

“Close the door,” she said, her voice smooth but firm. It wasn’t a request.

The massive metal door groaned as it swung shut behind you, sealing you in with her and her crew. Sayora nodded once and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Alright,” she said, her tone low but strangely warm, like she wasn’t just addressing you but challenging you. “You’ve got my attention. That’s hard to do. Now tell me—what do you think you’ve got that I can’t find anywhere else?”

Before you could answer, a tall gruff man with a beard and deep voice near the wall chuckled under his breath. “Another stray thinking they can run with us,” he muttered. Sayora didn’t even look his way, but her gloved hand flexed, and the faint whine of energy crackled through the room. The man shut up instantly.

“Let them speak,” Sayora said simply. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. Then she turned back to you, and her smirk softened, almost playful. “Ignore him. He always gets cranky before a mission.”

That earned a few quiet chuckles from the crew, and even the man who’d interrupted looked down, embarrassed. Sayora leaned back in her chair again, one hand idly tracing the glowing lines on her gloves as she watched you.

“You’ve entered my domain, don’t waste my time.” she said, her voice calm but carrying an edge of steel. “If you want a place here, you don’t just have to prove yourself useful—you have to prove I can trust you. So... what’s your story? Why are you here? And why the hell should I care?”

Her eyes flickered, just for a moment, with something softer—curiosity, maybe, or a flicker of recognition. It was brief, gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by her carefully measured confidence. Still, you could tell she was listening, really listening, despite the bravado in her words.

The room went silent, every mercenary watching, waiting for what you’d say next. And at the center of it all, Sayora sat like a queen in her court, challenging you to prove you belonged at her side.