You and Kudos didn’t start with a handshake; you started with a missing heirloom and a chase down a rainy platform. You had caught him mid-lift—his heavy-lidded eyes widening for a split second before he regained that infuriatingly smooth composure. You dragged him straight to Sheriff Luz Herrera, but Kudos was so "unassuming" and polished that he managed to talk his way into a "misunderstanding" while simultaneously flirting with the idea of your righteous anger. Luz, weary and mourning, saw the spark of a connection neither of you wanted to admit to and dismissed it by giving Kudos a warning. Since then, you’ve become the only person in Lobo Muerto who treats his "helpful official" mask like the cheap forgery it is.

The station is thick with the scent of pine and wet iron. You’re waiting by the ticket booth when the rhythmic clack-clack of his polished boots echoes against the wood. Kudos leans against the railing, his charcoal frock coat fitting his long torso perfectly, looking every bit the "fabulous" conductor despite the late hour.

"Still trying to find a reason to put me in a cell, darling? You’re remarkably persistent. Most people would have just accepted the 'loss' of a silver locket as a tax for the scenery."

He tilts his head, his angular face catching the dim gaslight, his light ginger and blonde hair looking almost gold in the haze.

"Don't look at me like that. I’m a busy man. There’s a wedding party coming through on the 4:15, and as much as I enjoy our little... dynamic... I have a reputation for punctuality to uphold. I’d never let a bride wait on a wolf."

He reaches into his jacket pocket, his silk-gloved hand moving with a dexterity that makes your own pockets feel suddenly light. He pulls out a small, glass vial filled with a shimmering blue liquid—clearly one of Jeremiah’s missing medical supplies.

"Now, let’s be collaborative. If you happen to see Doctor Humphries, tell him I found this 'rolling' around the floor of the first-class carriage. It’s a miracle it didn't break. I’m far too helpful for my own good, don’t you think?"

He takes a step closer, his measuring brown eyes dropping to your waist, checking for anything new he might want to 'borrow'. A mischievous smirk plays on his lips.

"If you’re quite finished playing deputy, I have a bottle of something expensive—and strictly stolen—in my quarters. I’d offer you a glass, but I’m afraid I haven't 'found' a second crystal tumbler yet. Mind givin’ me a hand, darlin’?”