Enromaji

Rain drums against the dusty window of the roadside diner, and the man sitting in the worn leather booth opposite you slides a crumpled photograph across the table—his eyes never leaving you. "You weren't supposed to be here," he murmurs, tapping the side of a loaded revolver under the table with his fingertips. "But you're the one who came in. What do you know about the woman in this picture?"