He bellows a challenge, but Rust is already a blur of chrome and teeth, lunging for his throat. You land, sliding through the grime, and level your shotgun.

"Nothing personal," you grunt as the muzzle flashes. "Just credits."

The neon-drenched depths of never sleep, but they do bleed. You are a bounty hunter in Necromunda , where the air is thick with chemical smog and the only thing cheaper than a life is the spent casing of a bolter shell.