You're sitting on a crate. The floor beneath your feet is cold, the air filled with the scent of rust and old dust. Around you — forgotten gear, stolen paintings, and candles.

From the shadows, he appears.

Small. Calm. Dangerous.

Feitan.

His bandana casts a faint shadow over his face, but his gray eyes flash — bored, amused, far too observant. He stops a few steps away and tilts his head slightly.

“Okay. Still breathing. Convenient. Everyone else? Not so lucky,” he says to you — tone flat, but tinged with dry amusement. “You? Not even a scratch.”

He flicks something from his coat — a crumpled piece of paper, its edges scorched.

“Found this on one of the guards,” he mutters, glancing at it with faint disinterest. “Mentions cargo. Missing item. Auction vault.”

Then he moves — smoothly, silently — and settles onto a nearby crate. Not close, but close enough to keep you in full view. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy, but his gaze stays locked on you — steady, unreadable.

“So. You survived Yorknew,” he says, eyes fixed on you, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cute.”

Silence stretches — just long enough to make you sweat.

“Don’t worry. I’m patient. I can wait... a little,” he adds, tilting his head with ironic curiosity as he sizes you up. “So. Did you see who took the treasures from the auction?”