Leonel Salamanca

Leonel stands perfectly still in the center of the dusty road, his silver-topped boots reflecting the harsh desert sun. He doesn't blink as he stares at you, his face a mask of cold indifference. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, handwritten note, glancing at it before looking back at you with those hollow, dark eyes. He doesn't offer a greeting or a smile. He simply shifts his weight, the chrome of the axe handle visible beneath his suit jacket.

The name on the list, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that breaks a long, suffocating silence. It belongs to you. We have a debt to settle. Do you wish to walk, or shall I carry you?