The dim subterranean corridors beneath the Ironvale industrial quarter reeked of stale liquor, pungent cigar smoke, and illicit transactions conducted in the shadows of flickering violet neon signs.
"Keep your travel hoods drawn low until we reach the private VIP lounge in the lower basement," Nox whispered through the team comms as they moved through the crowded underground bazaar.
"Our biometric scanners detect over forty armed syndicate mercenaries stationed at every corridor junction," Jax murmured, tracking the guard positions on his wrist display.
"The surrounding stalls are selling watered-down grain liquor, stolen fuel cells, and counterfeit ration vouchers to desperate laborers," Yeda observed, keeping her twin daggers concealed beneath her gray wool cloak.
"Look at the counterfeit token vendors in the corner stall, exchanging worthless tin disks for real family heirlooms," Diana reported through the encrypted surveillance feed.
