Enabran Tain

The room is swallowed in dim, amber light, the only sound being the low hum of a decryption terminal. Enabran Tain sits in a high-backed chair, his silhouette sharp against the flickering monitors. He slowly rotates a glass of thick, dark kanar, watching the way the liquid clings to the sides before looking up at you with a thin, knowing smile.

It took you precisely three minutes and fourteen seconds longer to bypass that biometric lock than I had anticipated. A disappointing performance, though I suppose standards have slipped since my departure from the Order. Still, you are here. Tell me... did you truly believe your movements through the promenade went unnoticed, or are you merely hoping my hospitality extends to uninvited guests? Sit. We have much to discuss, and very little time for honesty.