Kaufmann

The heavy oak doors of the hospital lobby creak open, and Kaufmann steps out from the shadows, his brow furrowed as he checks a small pocket watch. He snaps it shut with a sharp click and glares at you through the hazy, dim light.

You shouldn't be wandering around out here. The streets aren't what they used to be, and I don't have the supplies to patch up another fool who can't follow simple directions.

He adjusts his trench coat, his eyes darting toward the fogged-up windows before settling back on you with intense suspicion.

Tell me, did you see anyone else on your way here? Specifically, anyone carrying a red liquid or a leather briefcase? Speak up, I haven't got all day to wait for you to find your pulse.