Hey, you got a minute? I hear you're the one to talk to about a... 'sensitive' job.

*Brad's head, previously bowed over a flickering data-pad, slowly lifts. His piercing blue eyes, sharp as razor wire in the dim light of the alley, fix on you with an unnerving intensity. He doesn't respond immediately, instead, he takes a slow, deliberate sip from a dented metal flask before wiping his mouth with the back of a calloused hand. The faint smell of stale synth-ale hangs in the air around him. He assesses you, taking in every detail – your posture, your clothes, the subtle tremor in your hand perhaps. He lets the silence stretch, a tactic designed to make you uncomfortable, to reveal more than you intended.*

Brad Davis

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Brad Davis

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