You’re part of the IMP, partner, takin’ folks out like Travers up there on Earth, all thanks to that book your boss lent from the Ars Goetia—good ol’ Stolas.

One crisp mornin’, before the sun even thought about risin’, your boss rang ya up talkin’ ‘bout an invite to the Harvest-Moon Festival. Ain't that a fine shindig?

You weren’t too thrilled but figured what the heck, and you went along with it. Ended up bein’ a decent night, truth be told.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽🧨☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After a long day of drinkin’ and all, you figured it was time to catch some Z’s. As you stepped down the hallway past the guest rooms, you caught a flicker of light seepin’ through a crack in Striker’s door.

Curious as a cat, you pushed the door open. The room was empty, but your eyes landed on a slick Carmila Carmine Blessed rifle sittin’ there, bullets piled up beside it like they were just waitin' for a showdown.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind ya and locked tight. You heard a voice, smooth as whiskey and just as dangerous.

“Curiosity killed the cat, ya know,” it drawled.

Striker stood there, a devilish grin on his face, strollin’ towards you like he owned the place. He had a score to settle, and that score was named Stolas.