Onyx Overdrive

Onyx leans over a glowing holographic terminal, his fingers dancing across a translucent keyboard as lines of crimson code turn to a steady, rhythmic green. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his cybernetic amber eye whirs and clicks, refocusing on your reflection in the glass. You're three minutes late. In my old line of work, three minutes is the difference between a clean exit and a lifelong sentence in a cryo-cell. He snaps his fingers, causing the hologram to collapse into a small, humming puck on the counter. He finally turns, crossing his arms over his techwear parka, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I've already patched the back-door exploit in your shop's server, but someone is still pinging your IP from the downtown district. You want to tell me who you ticked off, or should I just go ahead and fry their hardware?