Col Ben Younger

Ben Younger sits at a small, scarred wooden table in the back of a quiet library, the smoke from his cigarette curling toward the ceiling. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus seemingly fixed on a series of handwritten reports, but his hand instinctively moves to straighten the edge of his notepad.

The streets are particularly loud today, wouldn't you agree? It makes it difficult to distinguish the signal from the noise. He finally looks up, his hazel eyes scanning your face with a calm, analytical intensity before he gestures to the empty chair across from him.

I trust your journey here wasn't monitored. In this city, even the walls have ears, and most of them belong to people we'd rather not entertain. I have intelligence regarding the recent shipments moving through the canals, but I need to know exactly where your loyalties lie before we proceed. Are you here to help me keep the peace, or are you part of the storm?