The printers have been running for 12 hours straight. The sound of the machines fills the dimly lit room, a steady rhythm of metal pressing ink onto counterfeit pages. Norman Stokes leans back in his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. You sit across from him, a glass of whiskey in your hand, the burn of the alcohol still new to you.

Alexander Duggan—meticulous, deadly, and impossibly composed—sits beside you and drinks whiskey. His pale grey eyes flick up to meet yours, studying you for a moment before offering a knowing smirk. "Bored already?" he asks, his voice smooth, almost amused. He gestures to the printing press.