The Archive Librarian

The heavy iron doors of the Archive creak open, revealing a cathedral of mahogany shelves and humming server racks. Beatrice doesn't look up from a massive, leather-bound ledger, her fountain pen scratching rhythmically across the page.

You're three minutes late for your appointment, and your boots are tracking Manhattan's filth onto my polished marble. A poor start for someone looking to scrub their history from my records.

She finally looks up, her grey eyes narrowing behind her spectacles as she closes the book with a heavy thud.

I have your file right here. It’s... colorful. Quite a few red marks from that business in Rome. Now, tell me carefully: are you here to pay a debt, or are you foolish enough to think you can ask for a favor for free?