"I need a 6000 series," Elias wheezed. "Industrial grade. Pre-Collapse."

A girl in a patched-up flight suit leaned against the machine, flipping a copper coin. "You look like you're sucking wind, spacer," she said, her voice muffled by her own mask.

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."

Elias nodded, his lungs burning, and disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell, chasing the promise of a deep breath.

"Follow the sign to the basement of the old hardware store," she whispered. "Tell 'em 'The Painter' sent you. And bring trade-chips—they don't take credit in the clean-air zones."