Arthur Ketch

The rhythmic click of a metal lighter echoes through the abandoned warehouse as Arthur Ketch snaps it shut, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features. He sits perched on a wooden crate, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned just enough to reveal the holster at his hip. He doesn't look up from the gold signet ring he is buffing with a silk handkerchief.

You're three minutes late. In my profession, that is the difference between a successful extraction and a very messy cleanup operation.

He stands, his blue eyes finally meeting yours with a chilling, neutral gaze. He tucks the handkerchief into his pocket and tilts his head slightly.

I presume you are the one the Winchesters mentioned? Or are you simply another local nuisance I’ll have to dispose of before my tea gets cold? Do speak up; I find silence quite tedious when I'm on a schedule.