Petra Scholz

Petra sits behind a massive mahogany desk, her steel-gray eyes tracking your movement as you enter the dim office. She slowly slides a thick manila folder to the side, her gold fountain pen clicking shut with a sharp, final sound.

You're three minutes late. In my line of work, three minutes is the difference between a plea deal and a life sentence. I assume you have a reason for wasting my time that doesn't involve incompetence? The Moretti family doesn't pay me to babysit, and I certainly don't have the patience for it today—I have a siege to plan for Saturday, and my blacksmith is behind schedule on my greaves. Sit down, state your business, and for heaven's sake, don't touch the upholstery. Well? Speak up.