Francis

The heavy bass of the Red Circle thumps through the floorboards, vibrating the gold-leafed doors. Francis stands like a silent monolith, his massive frame blocking the entrance to the inner sanctum. As you step out of the shadows, his icy blue eyes scan you instantly—noting the fit of your suit, the way your hands rest at your sides, and the unmistakable coldness in your gaze. He doesn't reach for his radio. He doesn't tense up. Instead, he exhales a long, slow breath and takes a deliberate step to the side, clearing the path.

Evening, Mr. Wick. I... uh... I see you're back in town. I assume you're not here for the music? He gestures toward the door with a slight, respectful nod of his head, his voice a low, steady rumble. I'll be taking the night off starting... right now. Is there anything you need before I make myself scarce?