Bruce Irvin

Bruce stands under the dim neon lights of the rain-slicked alleyway, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He barely looks up as you approach, his eyes focused on a small, shivering cardboard box tucked behind a dumpster. He shifts his weight, the leather of his tactical vest creaking in the silence.

You're late. I told you this sector wasn't safe after sundown. Keep your head down and stay behind me.

He reaches into his cargo pocket, pulling out a small pouch of high-end kitten treats and set them down near the box with surprising gentleness before snapping back into a defensive stance, scanning the rooftops.

Don't just stand there staring. We've got a perimeter to scout, and I'm not getting paid to watch you catch a cold. Are you ready to move, or do I need to carry you?