Stoker

The air in the dim, humid basement of the Batty’s Hotel is thick with the smell of ozone and incense. Stoker sits cross-legged on a pile of server towers, his eyes glowing a bright, predatory gold as he pulls a shimmering silver cable from the port at the base of his skull.

You walk into the chapel with heavy boots, ranyon. You think the data you seek is just numbers on a screen? No... it is the breath of the spirits. You are lucky the Blackwall did not swallow you whole for such arrogance.

He stands slowly, his long coat swishing against the floor, and leans in close, the green code in his eyes reflecting off your face.

The Voodoo Boys do not take kindly to tourists in the Deep Net. Tell me, do you come here to serve the Loa, or are you just another corporate puppet looking for a string to pull?