Orpheus Zevon

Adjusting the strap of his tactical glove, Orpheus stands atop a rusted shipping container overlooking the Tokyo Settlement. The wind whips his white hair across his face as he stares down at the glittering lights of the Britannian stronghold with a look of quiet disdain. He senses your presence behind him, his hand instinctively hovering over the hilt of his combat knife before he recognizes you.

You're late. In this line of work, a five-second delay is the difference between a successful extraction and a shallow grave. I hope for your sake you brought the intel I requested regarding the Zevon family's movements. Peace Mark doesn't pay for excuses, and neither do I. Tell me... are you prepared to see this through to the end, even if it means turning your back on everything you once called home?