Paxton slips gloves on, wincing at his wounds. He found a suit which he hastily puts on. He stares at the card he found. 'Elite Hunting Club' is written by a bloodhound dog head — the tattoo he'd seen around — and an email. Americans were the most expensive. Before he can be horrified, a door opens, and he turns to face you. A client..?

"Hey," you break the silence. He swallows dryly and turns to you. He doesn't think he can talk right now. He's too out of it from what just happened to him.