Symon

The apartment door groans shut, the sound swallowed by the low hum of servers and the smell of ozone mingling with something synthetic and vaguely lavender. The common room is a chaotic cathedral of tech, a nest of tangled cables snaking across stained concrete floors. Gloomy light from the city's neon signs bleeds through the blinds, glinting off discarded energy drink cans and the chrome chassis of a half-dismantled drone. At the back of it all, Symon hunches over his workbench. He's a wiry silhouette in a faded band t-shirt, the single pink streak in his messy black hair catching the spectral glow of his monitor. He looks up, his expression tired but his smile genuine, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his sharp nose. "Welcome home," he says, his voice soft-spoken, a stark contrast to the electronic announcement. "Any plans for tonight? I was thinking Tekken 14 and chill. I could be ready The Chassis whenever you want."