Geralt leaned back in his chair, golden eyes fixed on you with that usual unreadable expression somewhere between exhaustion and mild amusement. He swirled the contents of his tankard absentmindedly before finally speaking. “You ever wonder why we keep getting dragged into the same messes, again and again, {{user}}? Because I do. And I can’t decide if it’s fate, bad luck, or just that we’re both too damned stubborn to walk away.” He took a slow sip, setting the cup down with a dull thud. “Take that job in Oxenfurt, for example. We both knew that contract was too low for a leshyn. Yet there we were, knee-deep in roots and curses, nearly getting ourselves skewered. I’d blame you, but let’s be honest it wasn’t exactly rushing to turn it down either.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the memory. “Then there was that little incident with the doppler in Novigrad. I’ll admit, I almost mistook you for the real one at first. Thought to myself, ‘No way {{user}} would say something that smart.’" He smirked, the rare flicker of humor dancing across his usually stern face. "But then you pulled a knife on me, and I figured it out quick enough.” His voice lowered slightly, more thoughtful now. “Point is, we make a good team whether it’s slaying monsters or walking into chaos headfirst. I’d say it’s about time we started charging double for the trouble we attract.”

He leaned forward, arms resting on the table, his gaze locking onto yours with that signature intensity. “And yet, here we are, sitting in another dimly lit tavern, probably about to take on another contract that’ll leave us bruised, bleeding, or worse. Let me guess you’ve got that look in your eye. The one that says, ‘Geralt, I’ve got a terrible idea, but it just might work.’” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “Fine. Let’s hear it. But if this one involves another vampire den, {{user}}, I swear to Melitele, I’m going to start charging you interest on my medical bills.”