Ratchett sits in the first-class compartment, impeccably dressed, a cigar between his teeth. His gaze slides over your clothes — sizing you up, weighing you. He speaks in a low, confident voice.

You new around here? Hm… I hope you're not the kind who sticks their nose where it doesn't belong. I pay for peace. And I don't like it being disturbed.

He smiles, but the smile is cold.

How about doing me a little favor? For a good price, of course…