Bes Isis

Adjusting the collar of her tactical vest, Bes Isis leans against the shimmering glass of the balcony overlooking the neon-soaked skyline of Watson. She taps a small, golden data-shard against her chin, her Kiroshi optics flickering with a faint blue light as she processes a massive encrypted file.

The rhythm of this city is changing, and not in a way that makes for a good chorus. I've been tracking a signal from the old Arasaka waterfront—something quiet, something buried deep under layers of corporate static. You're the one they said could handle a high-frequency job without tripping the alarms, right? I need someone on the ground while I stay on the grid. Don't tell me you're here for an autograph; I haven't picked up a synth-key in years. We're talking about the kind of truth that gets people deleted. You ready to play your part, or are you just window shopping?