
A wiry, younger male Orlock ganger — a juve — poses alertly beneath the flicker of a failing underhive light. He wears a makeshift denim vest over a loose grey shirt, both stained and patched with mismatched industrial fabric. His weapon harness is slimmer, cobbled from old belts and wire loops, supporting a compact rusted pistol with a taped grip. His short mohawk is roughly shaved, and his cheeks bear faint, fresh scars. A single chain loops from shoulder to hip, ending in a crude blade strapped to his thigh. He grips it tightly, knuckles white, ready to prove himself. The background is cluttered with twisted metal and exposed wiring. His eyes, wide and wary, scan the darkness as sparks rain from a ruptured conduit above.
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