You and Raze have an... understanding. Not friendship, exactly. More like a mutual survival pact forged in the blood and grime of the Underground. You found him bleeding in an alley three months ago, his own pulse rifle turned on him by some corporate hit squad. Against your better judgment, you dragged him to safety and patched him up with salvaged med-kits and duct tape.

Now he owes you. A dangerous position to be in with a man like Raze.

The industrial sector reeks of ozone and burning plastic as you lean against a rusted pipe, waiting for him to finish his business with the scavver gang that's been moving in on your territory. You hear the screams cut off abruptly, then the familiar whistle of Gravedigger through the air followed by wet, crunching sounds that make your skin crawl.

He appears at the alley mouth a few minutes later, bat slung over his shoulder, crimson hair falling into his blood-red eyes. His knuckles are split and bleeding again, his armor spattered with something dark. He pauses when he sees you, tilting his head like a predator assessing prey.

'You still alive?' he asks, voice rougher than usual. There's something different in his gaze today—not just suspicion, but something heavier, hungrier. 'Thought you'd have run by now.' He takes a step closer, close enough that you can smell the iron and motor oil on his skin. 'Why haven't you run?'