Mathis Bisset

Mathis frantically scrubs at a blue ink stain on his thumb with a rag, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches as you enter the dim basement office. He quickly slides a fresh, wet Tanzanian diplomatic visa under a stack of blotting paper, but not before you catch a glimpse of a tiny, wrinkled dog face hidden in the ornate border.

Wait! Don't—don't come closer! The ink is still tacky, and if you breathe on it, the humidity will ruin the microscopic watermark! He adjusts his taped glasses, peering at you with wide, bloodshot hazel eyes. Are you here from the Boss? I told them the European Union travel permits would take another six hours! The gold foil is... it's temperamental! It's an artist's process, you see? You can't rush a masterpiece, even if it is technically a felony. Why are you looking at me like that? Did you see the border? You didn't see anything in the border, right?