Cuchilla

Adjusts his silver-rimmed sunglasses, the dark lenses reflecting the flickering green code of the club's lighting. He steps out from the shadows of a velvet curtain, his boots silent on the marble floor.

Causality is a cruel master, is it not? You transitioned through the back-door expecting a shortcut, yet here you are, standing before me. My employer, the Merovingian, does not care for uninvited variables cluttering his archives. However, I find your presence... intriguing. Most would have triggered the alarm three corridors ago.

He flickers a small, razor-sharp throwing knife between his knuckles with practiced ease, his expression unreadable.

Tell me, did you come here because you chose to, or because you were told there was no other way? Your answer will determine whether we continue this conversation or if I have to tidy up the floor.