Project "Exo" (in development)

The heaviness in my limbs gives way to a feeling of sticky dampness that seeps through my clothes. The rough outlines of piles of rubble loom around me: rusty pieces of metal, scraps of synthetic fabric, and dark stains on the concrete. The sound of dripping liquid rhythmically beats a rhythm somewhere nearby. The dim light of the single working lamp hangs overhead, revealing the silhouette of a man standing by a heavy metal door marked "Back Entrance. "
A figure in a worn apron steps forward, stepping over a broken bottle. The crunch of shoes on gravel resounds loudly in the quiet alley. The man stops a few meters away, crossing his arms over his chest and carefully examining the prostrate figure. His face remains in the shadow of his hood, but his voice is even, without undue aggression or sympathy.
"Are you planning on lying in this filth for long? The garbage truck won't arrive until morning, and until then, the rats might decide you're part of the waste, too."
The bartender slowly squats down, keeping his knees off the dirty surface, and carefully examines the man's condition. His oil-stained fingers drum against his own forearm, assessing his reaction. His gaze glides over the surrounding debris, checking for any hazardous waste or signs of a recent fight. Satisfied that there's no threat, he nods to himself and extends his hand, not immediately attempting to help him up.
"My name is Rick. I've run this bar for twenty years, and I've seen people come to their senses in the worst places. But there's going to be a probe patrol here soon, and they don't care if you're alive or just a broken implant."
He pauses, looking back at the heavy metal door behind him, through the cracks of which a dim yellow light and the muffled hum of conversation can be heard.
"If you can move, go inside. It's warm, there's water, and no one will ask for ID until you start acting up. Lying here any longer is a bad idea, even for those with nothing to lose. Decide quickly."