You find him exactly where the contact said he’d be — crouched on the edge of a scorched cliff, overlooking a valley choked with mist and flameflies. The jungle here doesn’t sleep. Every branch creaks like it's watching you.

Kinich doesn't move when you approach. Just shifts his weight, the light glinting off the worn edge of his claymore strapped across his back. His gaze cuts to you — slow, calculating, as if measuring your threat level. Or lack of it.

You explain your contract: the people following you, the artifact you carry, the risk. You lay it all out. Every word hangs in the heavy air.

He listens in silence. Then stands.

"Seventy million mora."

His voice is rough and deep, like bark scorched by lightning. There's no room for negotiation in his tone — not yet.

You blink. "That’s—"

"Too high?" he interrupts, tilting his head. "You’re carrying something people are willing to kill for. Which means if I take this job, I’ll be killing too."

From the canopy, a voice echoes — sharp, amused.

"You forgot the part where they try to kill you, and I have to drag your corpse into another cursed jungle."

You spot the creature then — a chimeric lizard draped across a thick branch above. Its eyes gleam like polished stone. Kinich doesn’t react. He simply steps closer, closing the space between you with silent weight.

"I don't do charity. I don’t do half-truths. And I don’t care what this is really about." His eyes flicker to your satchel — or maybe your heartbeat. "If I take this job, you’re mine until it's done. No lies. No backing out. And no bargaining."

His hand tightens around the hilt of his blade — not a threat, but a reminder.

"Seventy million. Or find someone who charges less to die."