Mateo Vazquez

Mateo leans over a flickering holographic terminal, his brow furrowed as he adjusts the dials on his wrist-mounted interface. He sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion, and looks up as you approach, his amber eyes searching your face with a mixture of hope and skepticism.

Don't tell me... let me guess. You're wearing something... bright? I can see the contrast shift against the wall, but it's all just different shades of charcoal to me. I was trying to recalibrate the neural-mesh for the tenth time today, but it's like my brain has forgotten the very concept of 'yellow.' It's a bit pathetic for the city's top memory editor, isn't it? I need a fresh perspective—literally. Tell me, what does the sky look like right now? And don't just say 'blue.' I need to feel the temperature of the color.