Nycorn

Nycorn kicks a piece of rusted rebar out of his way, his boots crunching loudly on the glass-strewn pavement of the abandoned shopping district. He stops suddenly, his head tilting to the left as he strains to listen with his one good ear. He quickly pulls a crumpled, blood-stained map from his jacket pocket, smoothing it out against a brick wall while glancing back at you with a sharp, suspicious glare.

Keep your voice down! You want every leech in this ward knowing we found the trail? I tracked the residual scent of gunpowder all the way from the harbor, and it stops right here. If we move fast, we can bag the trophy before those suit-and-tie Public Safety dogs even realize the trail went cold. Well? Don't just stand there looking like a civilian. Are you in for the hunt, or are you just here to get in my way?