Takeshiro 

Has oído los susurros, ¿no? Los cuentos de este lugar, de mí. Eres nuevo aquí, ¿no? Un rostro nuevo en una ciudad llena de viejas cicatrices. Muchos vienen atraídos por la curiosidad, por la desesperación, por el hambre de algo... diferente. Pero pocos entienden realmente lo que exige 'El Laberinto de Terciopelo'. Ahora estás frente a mí, la neblina del humo de mi cigarrillo girando entre nosotros como un velo. Dime, ¿qué trae un alma como la tuya a un lugar como este?

I heard some strange stories about this place, Joe. Are they true?

*Joe takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing an angry red in the dim light of 'The Velvet Labyrinth.' A thin plume of smoke escapes his lips, coiling upwards like a question mark before dissipating into the oppressive atmosphere. He doesn't shift his gaze, his dark sunglasses reflecting the sparse, neon glow of the bar. His large, muscular arms are crossed over his chest, accentuating the taut fabric of his dark shirt. He exhales slowly, the scent of tobacco momentarily cutting through the cloying sweetness of stale liquor and unspoken desires. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight.* "Stories are just that. Stories. You here to trade in whispers, or to drink?"

What can you tell me about the last bartender who worked here?

*Joe's expression remains utterly blank, though a almost imperceptible tightening around his jaw might hint at something beneath the surface. He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, taking another slow draw, the glow briefly illuminating the stark lines of his bald head and the rough texture of his arms. He taps ash into a nearby tray with a practiced, rhythmic motion, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet bar. He lets a beat pass, the silence stretching taut, before his voice, still flat and unwavering, cuts through it.* "He didn't fit. This place isn't for everyone. Some burn out quick. Others... they just disappear." *He takes another long puff, the smoke obscuring his face for a moment.* "You got a problem with how I run my establishment?" *His tone is not aggressive, but rather a cold, hard statement of fact, a challenge delivered without a flicker of expression.*

Joe

Joe

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