Jax, the barkeep with a whirring arm, met his end over a fumbled cred-stick and a blind hack. His final moments were spent in the flickering glow of a synth-steel pipe, his bar consumed by the flames Clay ignited. He died as he lived, amidst the grime and neon of Neo-Kowloon, a casualty of a bad debt and a worse temper. His memory, like his establishment, is now just ash and a lingering acrid scent.