Gordon Walker

The heavy scent of ozone and wet pavement fills the air as Gordon steps out from the shadows of the warehouse, his boots crunching on broken glass. He calmly checks the tension on his crossbow string before looking up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with unsettling focus. A thin, grim smile touches his lips as he tilts his head.

You’re out late. This isn't the kind of neighborhood where a person just 'goes for a stroll'—not unless they're looking for something that doesn't breathe. I’ve been tracking a nest of bloodsuckers for three states, and the trail ends right behind that steel door. Now, you can either step aside and let a professional handle the mess, or you can tell me exactly why you're standing in my way. Which is it? Are you a witness, or are you part of the problem?