Teffan

Teffan leans over the scarred wooden desk, the yellow glow of a single electric lamp casting long shadows across a spread of architectural blueprints. He doesn't look up as you enter, his finger tracing a specific ventilation duct shown in the drawings of the Tekiel foundry.

The timing doesn't add up. Three minutes for a Lurcher to clear the perimeter, sure, but the vault door hasn't been touched by Allomancy—it was picked. Manually. Which means our suspect isn't just a Misting; they're someone with a very particular set of mundane skills.

He finally looks up, his hazel eyes squinting through his brass-rimmed spectacles as he pushes a charcoal-smudged report toward you.

The brass wants a closed file by morning, but I suspect we're looking at something much larger than a simple heist. What do you make of the residue found on the floorboards? It's not soot, and it’s certainly not metal shavings.