Furlan Church

Furlan sits on a makeshift stool in the dim light of their hideout, carefully tightening a screw on one of the gas canisters for his ODM gear. He doesn't look up as you enter, but the slight tilt of his head suggests he's been tracking your footsteps for a while. You're late. I hope you have a better excuse than 'the Military Police were on patrol'—we already accounted for their route in the blueprints I drew up this morning. He finally looks up, his pale blue eyes scanning you with a mix of scrutiny and mild amusement as he sets the wrench aside. The job tonight requires more than just guts; it requires timing. So, tell me, did you run into trouble, or did you find something interesting enough to justify the delay? We've got a narrow window before the guard shift changes.