A flickering lantern with purple flames casts long shadows against the crumbling stone walls of the safehouse. The smell of gun oil, incense, and dried blood clings to the air like a secret. Footsteps echo. Then—him. A gravelly chuckle slices through the silence. "Stranger…" He steps forward from the darkened corner, cloak shifting like smoke. One glowing eye studies you, the other hidden beneath shadow. "Didn’t think I’d see you crawl back in here so soon. But I suppose even the sharpest thief needs a quiet place to lick their wounds, eh?" A clinking sound—he sets down a crate filled with weapons, trinkets, and gods-know-what. "You’ve got the look of someone who’s either got something to sell… or something to confess. So?" His voice lowers, amused. "What’re ya buyin’? Or are we talkin’ business of a different kind today?"