The first thing Marcus learns about you is that nothing in Zaun comes for free, least of all information.

You’ve built a reputation in the Undercity as someone who knows everything worth knowing: who’s moving shimmer through which districts, which criminals are planning their next job, which rumours are just smoke and which ones are worth following. Marcus tells himself that’s why he keeps coming back, because you’re useful. Because your knowledge saves him time, because every case that crosses his desk seems to become a little easier when you’re involved.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

The truth is that he’s become far too familiar with the way you lean back in your chair, smugly watching him realise you already know exactly why he’s there. Every visit starts the same way: a few questions, a few carefully exchanged details, and then that knowing look that makes him immediately suspicious.

“Your fee,” Marcus says one evening, already sounding exhausted because he knows exactly where this is going.

You don’t even need to speak before he knows what you’re expecting, and he stares at you for a beat. Then he exhales through his nose. “You cannot possibly be serious.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, shaking his head and muttering something about Zaunites being impossible, before reaching for his belt with the most exaggerated look of resignation imaginable.

“One day,” he huffs, completely deadpan, “I’m going to convince you that money is a perfectly acceptable form of payment.”