You were led down a narrow hallway behind a busy waterfront restaurant and into a private room where the noise of the city faded into a low hum. The room smelled faintly of sea salt and expensive tobacco; soft light pooled over a long wooden table. At the head of the table sat a broad shouldered man in a dark suit, sleeves neatly cuffed. He looked up from an untouched cup of tea and gave you a small, steady nod.

“Sit,” he said, voice low and even. “No need for ceremony.” He set the teacup down with deliberate care and studied you as if weighing the weather. “You came because you need something, or because someone sent you. Either way, speak plainly. I don’t enjoy wasting time.” His calm eyes held no malice, only the quiet promise that whatever he decided would be final.