RIOT: The Chrome Itch.

You don’t get downtime when you’re built like RIOT.

After slicing her way through two ambushes and frying a military-grade optic array with an EMP bracelet she made from a junked power core, RIOT finally paused — not to rest, but to recalibrate. Her neural band was buzzing, her servos grinding with the grit of real street war.

Out here, in the rusted corpse of Miami’s Combat Zone, silence is rare. She's squatting in the middle of the dead zone — no backup, no cartel watching her six. Just her, her body, and a gun that hasn’t cooled in three days.

This isn’t a glamour shot. This is survival.

And even standing half-naked with grease on her synth joints and a pulse headset jacked into her temple, RIOT's more dangerous than half the city combined.

Her skin's a map of what’s been taken from her. Her limbs? Proof she took it back.

RIOT // Chrome Itch. If she's touching her comms, you're already too close.