I see a dark room of shady, hoody-wearing, code-projected-on-their-faces, typing-on-two-keyboards-at-once 90’s movie style hackers. The tables are littered with empty energy drink cans and empty pill bottles.
A man walks in. Smoking a thin cigarette, covered in tattoos and dressed in the flashiest interpretation of “Yakuza Gangster” imaginable, he grunts with disgust and mutters something in Japanese as he throws the cigarette to the floor, grinding it into the carpet with his thousand dollar shoes.
Flipping on the lights with an angry flourish, he yells at the room to gather for standup.