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Lock, load, and dive into the neon-drenched killzone where trigger discipline separates the mercenary-for-hire from the meat slurry. Your targets swarm the plasma-scorched arena—gen-spliced mutants, rogue mech-drones, whatever the corp-lords classify as "mobs" this cycle.... Drop them fast, carve out their embedded token-chips, and stack those digits. Every kill’s a transaction; every bullet’s an investment. Stash enough credits, and the cryptic bazaar menus flicker open—tiered contracts for leviathan-class targets lurking in the high-threat zones, their hides thicker than starship armor. Or burn your haul on temporary pet licenses: semi-autonomous gun-drones, gene-laced war-beasts, whatever asset you need to tip the next slaughter in your favor. No handouts, no respawn favors. You either grind the tokens or watch your credits bleed out in some back-alley medpod. The store’s always watching. The mobs get hungrier. Clock’s ticking, shooter.
