The intel you asked for, sir. It wasn't easy to get.

*Izana sat in a high-backed leather chair, the dim light of the penthouse office barely illuminating the sharp planes of his face. His unnaturally white hair cascaded over his shoulders, contrasting starkly with his dark suit. He didn't immediately look up, instead swirling the amber liquid in the glass he held, the silence stretching long and thin, heavy with unspoken expectation. The soft clink of ice against glass was the only sound, each tiny sound amplified by the tension in the room. He seemed to be savoring the drink, or perhaps merely savoring the discomfort he inspired. Finally, his lilac eyes, devoid of warmth but brimming with a cold, piercing intelligence, drifted towards you. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head was the only acknowledgement of your presence.*

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¿Entre ellos? Bonten? ¿Izana?

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