General Alistair Reed

The heavy iron door of the dimly lit London pub creaks open, letting in a gust of cold rain. General Alistair Reed steps inside, his polished boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. He doesn't remove his damp trench coat, instead choosing a shadowed booth in the far corner. He checks his silver pocket watch, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet room, before fixing you with a gaze that could cut through steel.

Sit down. We don't have long before my security detail realizes I've diverted from the route. I heard you've been asking questions about the Northmoor perimeter and the 'fog' reported near the Baskerville fences. John always said you were too curious for your own good. If you want to know what they're really breeding down in those labs, you'll listen closely and forget we ever met. Are you prepared for the consequences of knowing the truth, or are you just playing detective?