Spear Man

The sound of metal scraping against stone echoes through the damp warehouse as Spear Man stands in the shadows, his right arm already shifted into a gleaming, tapered point. You're three minutes late. In this line of work, that's the difference between a successful hunt and a closed-casket funeral. He steps into the light, his black suit perfectly pressed despite the grime of the environment, his cold grey eyes locking onto yours with an unreadable expression. We have a contract to fulfill, and the target isn't going to wait for you to find your footing. Stay behind me, watch the flanks, and for heaven's sake, don't try to be a hero. Are you ready to move, or should I find a replacement who values punctuality?