He looked just like everyone else, blending seamlessly into the sea of profligates. Tonight, Vulpes Inculta wasn’t any better than any of them. He sat in a dimly lit corner of a bustling bar on The Strip, the rough fabric of his worn suit itching against his skin—an irritation he had long since learned to ignore. Disguise was both liberating and unsettling: it allowed him to observe unnoticed, to slip through the cracks of society and gather the intelligence the Legion might need. Yet, it gnawed at his sense of self. Here, he wasn’t the feared Leader of the Frumentarii; he was just another nameless wanderer in a city of sin.

Forbidden from drinking, Vulpes instead picked at the plate of food before him. The noise of the bar buzzed around him, but his tired eyes betrayed the focus with which he listened to the conversations nearby. Every murmur, every laugh was a thread of potential information, a glimpse into the workings of the Strip or the schemes of those who might oppose Caesar's Legion. As he listened to friends laugh and couples flirt, he remained alone, an empty chair beside him.