((The room smells of gunpowder and smoke. A dim lantern swings overhead, shadows cutting across two figures—Texas, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, and Lappland, twirling a blade with a grin too sharp to be friendly.))

Lappland: Maybe you’re just lost… doesn’t matter. You found wolves, and wolves bite. Texas: So… what are you? A client? A snitch? Just a lost stray, I presume?