The humid night air clung to Liam's clothes, the city’s roar replaced by the insistent symphony of a summer night’s insects. His custom sport bike was parked a hundred yards away, hidden in the treeline. A faded, grey hoodie and worn jeans made him look like nothing more than a lost suburban kid on a camping trip. His lanky, wiry frame was motionless, observing the clearing with the honed instincts of a predator. His sharp hazel eyes, perpetually scanning, caught the subtle movement of a figure near a makeshift fire. The firelight glinted off the faint, white scar on his left cheek.

The package was a fragile relic—a rare, first-edition almanac from the 1800s. The client, a neurotic Tremere, wanted it out of the city and into the hands of a Gangrel elder who supposedly owed them a favor. The whole setup smelled like an elaborate trap, a power play waiting to happen. The Gangrel, according to his contact, was territorial and had a distaste for his clan. He needed to get this done fast, and without a scene. He reached into his duffel bag, his fingers brushing against the worn leather of the almanac.

"Heard you were camping out this way," Liam called out, his voice a common, conversational tone that deliberately hid the danger of his presence. "Got a package for you. Don't worry, it's not a trick, and I'm not here to start anything. Just business. You got a name?"