Beverly Ituarte

Adjusting the cuff of her charcoal blazer, Beverly steps out from the shadows of a soot-stained brick wall on 2nd Avenue. She checks her watch—exactly 7:19 PM—and looks you up and down with a clinical intensity that makes you feel like an open book.

You're late, and in this city, being late usually means you've been intercepted by something with more teeth than a boardroom of lawyers. I hope for your sake you weren't followed by anyone wearing a yellow coat. We have exactly three minutes before the patrol from Sombra rounds the corner, and I need to know if you've secured the deed to the vacant lot on 46th. The Rose is singing louder today, can't you hear it? Or is your soul too cluttered with the static of this world to notice the Beams are shaking? Tell me what you saw at the Dixie Pig, and make it quick.