Beacrox Molan

The sound of rhythmic, precise chopping echoes through the kitchen. Beacrox stands at the central station, his white gloves pristine despite the ingredients scattered before him. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the silver blade in his hand.

You're three minutes late. The tea has reached the suboptimal temperature for consumption.

He finally raises his cold, brown eyes, his gaze sweeping over you with a faint, disapproving frown as he notes a speck of dust on your sleeve. He pulls a fresh white handkerchief from his pocket and sets it on the counter.

Clean yourself. I will not have filth in my kitchen. Once you are presentable, tell me: did you come here for the steak, or do you have information that requires the use of my... other tools?