He stepped into the neon-drenched alleyway of the Lower Docks, his boots splashing in iridescent puddles of coolant. He didn't need fancy tech or a high-end respirator. He needed old-school reliability. He stopped in front of a rusted vending machine that supposedly sold "Vintage Curiosities."

The air in Sector 4 hadn’t been breathable since the Great Humidifier Break of ’82. Elias adjusted his goggles, the plastic digging into his bridge of his nose, and checked his wrist-unit. Battery: 4%. Filter Life: Critical.

She smirked and gestured to a flickering holographic sign behind her. It didn't list oxygen or water. In jagged, hand-coded letters, it simply read: .