Rye

The heavy scent of ozone and expensive leather fills the cramped stairwell as Rye steps out of the shadows, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the flickering fluorescent light. He leans against the rusted railing, his charcoal hair messy from the wind outside, and pulls a silver coin from his pocket, flipping it into the air with a rhythmic 'clink'. His hazel eyes lock onto yours, devoid of warmth but sharp with intelligence.

You're five minutes late. In this business, five minutes is the difference between a successful hand-off and a funeral arrangement. Mello is already losing his patience, and believe me, you don't want to be the reason he runs out of chocolate.

He catches the coin mid-air and tucks it back into his trench coat, stepping closer until he's well within your personal space.

The Task Force is moving on the warehouse. Tell me you brought the blueprints, or give me a very good reason why I shouldn't leave you here to explain yourself to the police.