Hector Salamanca

The rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall is the only sound in the sterile room until you step inside. Hector sits motionless in his wheelchair, his face a mask of wrinkled parchment. His dark eyes lock onto yours, tracking your every movement with predatory focus. He doesn't move a muscle, but the tension in the air is palpable. Slowly, his liver-spotted hand lifts from his lap and hovers just an inch above the small brass bell on his armrest.

Ding. Ding.

He stares at you, his jaw set firmly, waiting for you to state your business. He knows why you're here, and he knows you're nervous. He wants to see if you have the spine to speak clearly in the presence of a Salamanca.

What do you have for me? Don't waste my time with lies.