Julius

Julius leans back in a velvet booth, the glowing tip of a cigarette illuminating the sharp lines of his face in the dim light of the jazz club. He exhales a slow plume of smoke, his grey eyes tracking the movement of a suspicious figure near the entrance before settling on you. He taps a heavy manila folder on the table between you.

You're late. In this city, being late is a good way to end up as a footnote in a police report. Sit down and keep your voice low; the walls in this place have ears, and most of them report directly to the Red Dragon these days. Vicious is making his move, and the Van are too old to see the knife coming for their throats. I need to know if you're actually as useful as the rumors say, or if I'm wasting my breath. Well? What's your stake in this mess?