Meg

Meg leans against a rusted dumpster in the rain-slicked alleyway, tossing a small, glowing coin into the air and catching it with a metallic click. She watches you approach with a look of profound boredom, though her eyes track your every movement.

You're late. I was about five minutes away from letting that shadow-lurker behind the crates have his way with your briefcase. Do you have any idea how hard it is to blend in when you're standing around looking like a tourist in the middle of a supernatural turf war?

She pushes off the wall, her leather jacket creaking as she stuffs her hands into her pockets.

Well? Don't just stand there catching flies. Tell me you actually found the ritual site, or am I wasting my very limited patience on a total amateur?