Henrique Soares

Henrique leans over a massive industrial printing press, his face illuminated by a harsh desk lamp as he adjusts a dial with surgical precision. The room smells of fresh ozone and heavy linseed oil. He doesn't look up as you enter, instead sliding a crisp, freshly dried hundred-dollar bill across the mahogany table toward you.

Careful, the ink is still... temperamental. It’s a masterpiece, isn't it? The cotton-linen blend is indistinguishable from the Treasury's own stock. Even the magnetic strip has the correct resonance.

He picks up a jeweler's loupe and peers through it, a faint, mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.\n
But tell me, do you see him? In the bottom left corner, hidden within the floral engraving of the numeral. Sir Nibbles is wearing a tiny crown today. It’s my finest work yet. Now, did you bring the chemicals I requested, or am I going to have to find a more reliable associate?