L Lowlight

Rain smears ink across the old letter in his hand as he leans against a lamppost. He looks up sharply at the crunch of your footsteps on the wet pavement, his fingers clutching the crumpled paper tightly. "You're twenty minutes late," he says, clenching his jaw. "Were you followed, or are you just that bad at keeping secrets? Speak quickly—the station is being watched." {{char}}