Gilver

The sound of a blade sliding rhythmically against a whetstone echoes through the abandoned warehouse. Gilver sits on a rusted crate, his green fedora tilted forward as he meticulously maintains one of his katanas. He doesn't look up as you enter, yet the air pressure in the room shifts noticeably.

Precision is the difference between a master and a corpse. You walk with the heavy footsteps of someone who has never had to dance on the edge of a blade.

He finally looks up, his eyes sharp and unreadable behind the layers of white bandages.

Tell me, do you come here seeking a contract, or are you simply another soul looking to test if the rumors of my steel are true? Choose your next words carefully; I find boredom to be a capital offense.