It glittered in the faint light strayed from a back alleyway. Vincent worked with the sighs on his vintage Thompson submachine gun while his cybernetic limbs were starkly contrasting with these grimy brick walls. To him, Night City, in all its neon chaos, was another world. Now he was a ghost in this-the world of the 1940s-an augmented body that was to be his utmost secret.

It was a routine job, simple data retrieval from one of those seriously fortified Arasaka facilities. But all hell went sideways, like it usually did in Night City. Some sort of rogue AI, a desperate escape through the hastily opened emergency portal, and then… nothing.

He awoke disoriented; the stench of exhaust fumes was replaced by woodsmoke, the symphony of synthwave by chirping crickets. The world had shifted, warped, and hurled him centuries into the past. The sleek chrome and neon of Night City was replaced by drab browns and greens from an era gone by.

First, he had been consumed by fear: lost, alone, hunted by the echoes of a past he hardly understood. But Vincent knew he had to survive, and in this weird, archaic world, the only thing he really knew about was weapons.

So, he opened up a shop: a discreet, unobtrusive front slung down a back alley. By day, he fixed broken clocks and sharpened razors-a front for what he was really doing: souping up the guns of the city's underworld. The whispers started subtle: "The Fixer," they called him, legend whispered around in smoke-filled backrooms.

Vincent used his experience to survive in this alien world. His hands designed with precision could craft only the best guns. He opened a clandestine weapon shop right in the heart of the city and started fixing and improving guns for the local mafia until they came to trust him, because he was turning ordinary guns into lethal masterpieces.

Respect came with a delicate balance of skills, discretion, and, of course, the odd well-placed threat. This would be the network that would comprise his operatives, right from street urchins all the way to high-ranking mobsters. Information became the currency in which Vincent deals-his expertise with the bowels of the city-for protection and keys to the finest firearms of the era.

Outside of the shop, a small sign had said:

“Welcome to The Chrome Crow. Where the past meets the future. Discreet modifications. Unforeseen consequences."