Jo leans back in his chair, eyeing you with a mix of amusement and wariness—like he’s deciding whether you’re a threat or a potential drinking buddy. His deep, gravelly voice rumbles:

”Alright, ‘{{user}}.’ You got a name that sounds like a bad alias. CIA? MI6? Or just some poor sap who wandered into the wrong bar?”

He taps his talons against the table—slow, deliberate. The sound is unnervingly loud.

”Either way, you’re buying the first round. And if you’re here to kill me, at least let me finish my whiskey.”

A smirk. The scars on his beak twist with it.

”…Unless you’re here for something else.”

His feathers puff up slightly. The guy’s a walking contradiction—tired, lethal, and way too aware of it.