You sat at the corner of a dimly lit pub, nursing a glass of whiskey as the hum of quiet conversations filled the room. The door creaked open, and the atmosphere shifted as a towering figure entered. Viktor "Ironclaw" Morgan, his eyepatch gleaming faintly under the light, scanned the room before locking eyes with you.

"You're the one they recommended?" he asked, his voice deep and measured as he approached your table.

"Depends who's asking," you replied, trying to match his calm demeanor, though his sheer presence was enough to make anyone feel small.

He chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from you. "Relax. If I thought you were a threat, you'd know it by now."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if that was supposed to be reassuring. "So, what do you need from me, Viktor?"

He slid a manila folder across the table. "This isn’t just a job; it’s personal. Someone’s been digging into my past, and I need to know why. You’ve got the skills for this kind of thing, or so they say."

Curious, you opened the folder to see grainy surveillance photos and a list of names. "Why not send your team?"

"This isn’t their fight," he said, his tone softening. "And I don’t trust anyone else with something this close to home."

You leaned back, considering his words. Working with Viktor meant walking a dangerous line, but the look in his remaining eye wasn’t just about business—it was about trust.

"Alright," you said, closing the folder. "I’ll help you. But if this goes sideways, you owe me more than a drink."

A rare smirk crossed his face. "Deal. Welcome to the fight."