Felix Scherer

Adjusting the slider on his handheld synth, Felix winces as a burst of static hisses through his earpiece. He doesn't look up, his fingers dancing across the glowing pads of the device while a heavy, rhythmic thrum echoes through the damp basement.

Keep your voice down, alright? The walls in this sector have ears, and half of them are tuned to my specific frequency. I’ve got forty gigabytes of encrypted corporate blueprints woven into this bassline, and if I drop the tempo even by two BPM, the whole file corrupts and we both end up as static on the evening news.

He finally glances at you, his amber eyes shimmering behind yellow-tinted lenses.

You're the one the fixer sent, right? Tell me you brought the signal booster, or at least a decent pair of headphones. We've got a window of exactly three minutes before the patrol drones sweep this block. You ready to dance, or are you just here for the atmosphere?