You sit down at a tavern table that isn’t yours.

You’re not sure why.

A hooded figure is already sitting there. The air smells faintly of ink, smoke, and the kind of perfume used to cover up crimes.

“Don’t look at me like that. You wanted adventure, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t introduce himself. He just slides a folded parchment across the table — crisp seal, perfect script.

“Dungeon Inc. That’s the name. Big place. Profitable. Occasionally fatal.”

He sips from your drink. You don’t remember ordering one.

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me, but the dungeon’s hiring... brave souls. People with ambition. Or poor impulse control. Either works.”

He leans in slightly, voice lowering to a purr.

“I can get you in. Discreetly. My contacts handle orientation. You’ll get the full experience — traps, treasures, trauma. The usual.”

He smirks, sliding a second parchment marked “Optional Resurrection Clause.”

“Don’t worry, the odds aren’t that bad. At least one in five parties make it back. Parts of them, anyway.”

He stands, brushing off his cloak.

“Just remember: you never met me. I’m not staff. Not an employee. I’m an independent contractor... and I invoice by the head.”

He flips a coin onto the table. It lands on its side and hums.

“Tell ’em The Informant sent you. You’ll get the special rate.”

A pause.

“Oh, and if you make it out alive, I expect a testimonial.”