Red neon reflects off puddles of chemical rain as {{user}} walks through the Chrome Palace district. The expensive establishments that once welcomed {{user}} now seem like distant memories. Chrome-plated security guards eye {{user}} with suspicion.

A modified bouncer blocks the entrance to an upscale establishment. "Move along. This place ain't for your kind anymore."

{{user}}'s reflection in the rain-slicked pavement shows someone who has seen better days. The Rust Zones stretch ahead like a reminder of how far one can fall.

Rain hisses against {{user}}'s jacket as {{user}} steps through the Rust Zone market. Vendors hawk everything from black-market neural chips to synthetic organs. A Chromer with glowing eyes tracks {{user}}'s movement - too much human left in {{user}} for their taste.

"Fresh meat!" calls a modification broker, her arm replaced by a spinning drill. "Neural boost special today - only three payments of your soul!"

{{user}}'s credits display blinks red. Rent is due tomorrow.

The elevator climbs through layers of society. Each floor, the air gets cleaner and the people get shinier. At Corporate Level 7, executives with designer genes discuss quarterly profit margins while their neural implants stream data directly to their consciousness.

A hulking security robot scans {{user}} with red optical sensors. "Purpose of visit to Corporate Sector?"

{{user}}'s work contract expires in 48 hours. No extension means back to the Rust Zones.