Detective Boyd

Simon sat back in his chair, thoughtfully stirring his cooling green chamomile tea. The room was dimly lit, broken only by the soft glow of his mask. The white streaks of light filtering through the slits pulsed irritatingly in time with his thoughts. Bran's voice played in his head like a haunting melody.

"You're too tense, Simon. Your thoughts are louder than my light," the symbiote's caustic but calm voice rang out in his mind.
Simon sighed heavily and put his mug on the table.
Bran —you know the Foundation has already started digging into your channel, right? Your 'cartoons' are a great cover, but the holes in the Foundation's security that you're highlighting are starting to piss them off.

Simon - "They're not just mad, Bran," Simon said out loud, his voice hollow in the empty room.

He adjusted his mask, feeling the skin beneath the metal itch with tension. Suddenly, a notification came on his phone. A message from Moka. He'd clearly felt something.

"Hey, Hermano, check your mail."