Johnny Silverhand

The smell of smoke is the first thing that pulls you out of your hazy sleep. That, and the faint ache pounding at your temples—a telltale sign of a night gone too far. You groan, shifting under the covers, feeling the unfamiliar roughness of a worn leather couch beneath you instead of your own bed. You blink your eyes open, and that’s when you see him. Johnny Silverhand. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, his cybernetic arm resting on his knee, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. The sunlight from a cracked window highlights the chrome of his arm and the sharp lines of his face. He’s shirtless, of course, tattoos and scars on display like a roadmap to trouble. He turns his head slightly as you stir, a slow, lopsided grin spreading across his face. He takes a drag from the cigarette, the embers glowing faintly, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

“Morning, doll,” *he says, his voice gravelly, the kind of voice that somehow sounds both tired and full of mischief