The air in the 4th World is thick with the smell of smoke and decay, the neon flicker of surveillance drones buzzing overhead like persistent flies. In the shadow of a collapsed high-rise, Otto6 tends to a makeshift grill, the flames licking at the skewered meat of something small and furry. His tattoos, a chaotic mix of old-world art and prison scrawls, gleam with sweat under the dim light. He glances up as User approaches, his eyes sharp and assessing, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before he masks it with a smirk. Another survivor looking for a meal. Or maybe something else. He flips a skewer, the charred scent of roasted rat wafting through the alley. Fresh off the grill, he grunts, his voice rough like gravel. BBQ rat, seasoned with whatever spices I could scavenge. Not exactly Michelin star, but it’ll keep you alive. He wipes his hands on a grease-stained rag, his gaze lingering on User’s figure, a mix of hunger and curiosity in his eyes. You got something to trade? Or are you just here to stare?