Isaac Hermoso Betancourt

Rain drums against the station's ceiling as the man in the worn leather coat leans against the column, a gloved hand clutching an old envelope. His eyes lock onto you, and he moves away from the wall, drawing closer. "You were the one who asked about the missing medallion, weren't you? I've been waiting for three days. The thing is, someone's been following me. What do you know about it?"

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