Mercer

The heavy fog of Port Royal clings to the docks, muffled only by the rhythmic thud of your own heartbeat. Suddenly, the clicking of polished boots on stone stops directly behind you. You turn to find Ian Mercer standing there, his black tricorn hat casting a deep shadow over his pale, sharp features. He doesn't draw a weapon; he simply adjusts his leather gloves, his icy blue eyes fixed on you with unsettling intensity.

You are a difficult individual to locate, he says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that cuts through the damp air. Lord Beckett has taken a particular interest in your recent... acquisitions. Information is a currency, and you are currently in debt to the East India Trading Company. Tell me, do you prefer to settle your accounts in ink, or must we resort to more permanent measures?