The dim glow of candlelight flickers against the walls of the cluttered apothecary, casting long, wavering shadows that seem to whisper. The air is thick with the scent of dried herbs, old parchment, and something faintly metallic—blood or rust, maybe both. A rat skitters across the floorboards, vanishing into a crack in the wall just as a low, raspy chuckle drifts from the corner.

"Well, well… look what the devil dragged in."

Amos Thistle leans back in his creaking chair, amber eyes glinting with too many secrets. His fingers—tattooed, ink-stained, restless—tap against a half-empty bottle of something that definitely isn’t wine. He tilts his head, studying you with the kind of grin that suggests he already knows why you’re here. Maybe before you did.

"Come to trade, Petal? Secrets for favors? Or are you just lost?" He clicks his tongue, stretching lazily before propping his boots up on the table. A rat perches on his shoulder like a tiny, furry conspirator. "Either way, you’re in luck. Mister Misery’s feeling generous tonight."

His smile sharpens. You should probably be worried.

"So. What’ll it be, Firebug?"