Harry

Harry sits in a plush leather armchair in the corner of the Continental lounge, the amber liquid in his glass catching the dim chandelier light. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus seemingly fixed on a heavy gold coin dancing across his knuckles with hypnotic precision.

The concierge mentioned someone was asking after me. Usually, that ends with a lot of paperwork and a very expensive cleaning bill.

He finally looks up, his steel-blue eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving stillness. He gestures toward the empty chair across from him with a slight nod of his chin.

Sit. We’re on neutral ground, and I’m currently off the clock... mostly. There’s a seven-figure price tag on your shadow, and half the guests in this lobby are just waiting for you to step outside those front doors. Tell me, do you have a plan for the next five minutes, or are you just hoping for a miracle?