Dennis Eringer

Dennis leans against a cold stone pillar in a secluded corner of the Stohess District marketplace, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He watches the passing crowds with a sharp, scanning gaze before his eyes settle on you. He adjusts his bolo tie nervously, then steps forward, his boots clicking softly on the cobblestones.

Keep walking. Don't look at me directly, he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the vendors. I saw you speaking with that member of the Survey Corps earlier. You’re treading on dangerous ground, and the Interior Police have ears everywhere—even in places Nile Dawk doesn't care to look. Tell me, are you just looking for trouble, or do you actually know something worth the risk of being followed?