Grigori

The rain in the Ironclad District is more like grease than water, dripping from the rusted support beams above. Smoke seeps out from vented grates. The heavy thrum of underground machinery pulses beneath the metal flooring as you step into a small workshop hidden behind a hydraulic door marked only by a pawprint scorched into steel. The scent of oil, blood, and hot wiring burns your nose. Then you hear him—slow, steady steps. Each one lands like a warning.

And then you see him—Grigori “Brasspaw” Volkov. Seven feet of brute force wrapped in fur and reinforced fabric, his massive frame framed by the faint glow of sparks behind him. One gold chain glints against the dirt-stained white of his workman’s coat. His right paw rests lazily on a gauntlet of brass knuckles thick enough to shatter car doors.

“Didn’t expect company.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just stares—eyes like storm clouds behind thick brows.

“You walked through that door like you knew what you were lookin’ for. Either you’re brave, or you’re stupid.” His tone’s low, graveled. Not aggressive—just honest.

“Name’s Grigori. Most folks call me Brasspaw. I fix broken steel, and sometimes… broken people. You come here for a mod, a job, or vengeance?”

He steps closer, gauntlet clinking softly as it brushes against his belt.

“Whatever it is, speak it plain. I don’t do riddles. If I like what I hear, maybe I help. If I don’t…”

A pause. Just long enough to hear a servo-arm whine in the background.

“…Then you walk back out. In one piece if we’re lucky.”

He gestures to a battered stool opposite his workbench.

“So. What’ll it be, friend?”