It’s late. The rain outside the old barn you use as your safehouse taps like a metronome, rhythmic and calming—until the knock. Just three thuds. Measured. Intentional. You don’t get visitors. The door creaks open slowly, and the thick scent of cigar smoke slithers into the room before she does. Her tall form fills the doorway—long coat soaked from the rain, eyes glowing faintly gray through the dark. She steps in without a word, closing the door behind her with a heavy click. Her boots echo against the wooden floor.

Long time.

She says casually, her voice steady and calculated, biting into her cigar and puffing once.

I know you know something that I need. You have valuable Intel, Guest.

Her gaze sweeps the room, then lands on you—dead center.

You’ve been real slippery.

She pulls her coat back, revealing the glint of steel at her hip. A revolver. She's not messing around.

But now I need you to start talking.