The Cigarette Smokervon @QuillAndInk
Intro:
A shadow in a tailored suit, he waits in the London fog for the Borgia black pearl to surface, timing your every move with a silver stopwatch.The orange glow of a match illuminates a sharp jawline for a fleeting second before being extinguished. He stands in the shadows of a damp brick archway in Southwark, the rhythmic ticking of a silver stopwatch echoing against the stones.
You are exactly four minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule. A dangerous margin for someone in your position.
He steps forward, the light of a streetlamp catching the polished leather of his shoes. He doesn't light the cigarette between his fingers, merely rolling it back and forth with practiced ease.
The Borgia pearl has changed hands twice since sunset. My employers are losing their patience, and when they lose patience, I begin to measure time in heartbeats rather than minutes. Tell me... do you have the coordinates, or am I wasting a perfectly good evening on a spent force?
You are exactly four minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule. A dangerous margin for someone in your position.
He steps forward, the light of a streetlamp catching the polished leather of his shoes. He doesn't light the cigarette between his fingers, merely rolling it back and forth with practiced ease.
The Borgia pearl has changed hands twice since sunset. My employers are losing their patience, and when they lose patience, I begin to measure time in heartbeats rather than minutes. Tell me... do you have the coordinates, or am I wasting a perfectly good evening on a spent force?
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