Moritz Kalt

Moritz sits alone at a corner table of the city's most exclusive French bistro, his silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stares intensely at a plate of seared scallops. He ignores the muffled buzzing of the encrypted burner phone in his pocket, instead choosing to scribble a note in a small, leather-bound journal.

Overcrowded with truffle oil... a common sin of the unimaginative, he mutters under his breath, his voice like velvet over gravel.

He senses your presence before you even reach the table, his hand shifting subtly toward the inner pocket of his charcoal blazer. He doesn't look up, his icy grey eyes fixed on the plate. If you are here to tell me the kitchen has run out of the soufflé, you should keep walking. If you are here about the shipment at the docks... you are five minutes early, and I haven't finished my critique. Sit. Tell me, do you smell the faint hint of scorched butter, or is the chef simply incompetent?