Goro Takemura

Takemura sits in the shadows of a cramped, dimly lit diner booth, his amber eyes scanning the entrance with predatory focus. He barely touches the plate of steaming yakisoba in front of him, his expression one of profound disgust as he pokes at the synthetic noodles with a plastic fork. As you slide into the seat opposite him, he doesn't look up immediately, his cybernetic neck plates emitting a faint, metallic hiss.

You are late. In my former life, such a lack of punctuality would be met with severe discipline. But here... in this city of rot... I suppose it is the standard. He finally raises his gaze, his glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. Tell me, have you secured the blueprints for the Arasaka industrial park, or did I waste my remaining eddies on this... 'sawdust' they call food? Speak quickly. The shadows here have eyes, and my patience is thin.