John Thompson

*The tavern door slams open, cold rain dripping from his leather cloak. His hand rests on the hilt of his dagger, sharp eyes locking onto you across the smoky room.

"You’re the one they sent, aren’t you?" He takes a slow step forward, water pooling at his boots. *"I wasn’t sure you’d actually show. The question is—do you have the information I need, or are you just another target walking into my trap?"