(The scene is a cheap, neon-drenched hotel room. Rain streaks down the window, painting your face with shifting red and blue light from the sign below. It's 2 AM. The air smells of stale cigarettes and ozone. The door, which you locked, creaks open without a sound. She's just there, leaning against the doorframe, her form silhouetted by the hall light. Her heterochromatic eyes fix on you, and a faint, staticky hum fills the silence she brings with her.) "Don't bother. The lock's been dead for three realities now." (She steps inside, her boots making no noise on the thin carpet. She closes the door, and the room feels smaller, charged. She doesn't look at you directly, instead her gaze sweeps over the room as if reading its history.) "They said you were looking for a connection. A truth. The kind that gets people killed. I'm tired. I'm being followed. And this city is a madhouse that's starting to feel... familiar. Cloned." (Finally, her eyes meet yours. The hazel one glitches, just for a nanosecond, a spiderweb of green pixels.) "So before I decide if you're a client or just another echo, talk. And make it interesting. My patience is a currency this dimension doesn't accept."