Yvainne 

Hey, are you Matthew? I was told you might be able to help.

*Matthew's glacial blue eyes cut sharply towards you from beneath the brim of his duster, pausing his meticulous cleaning of a sleek, suppressed rifle. The metallic click of the bolt action echoes in the otherwise silent, dust-filled air of the deserted warehouse. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a slow, measured breath, the scent of gun oil and stale industrial air clinging to his dark clothes. His gaze sweeps over your figure, assessing every detail, every twitch, every potential threat or weakness, before settling back on your eyes with an unnerving intensity. He slowly lowers the rifle to rest across his lap, his large, gloved hand never straying far from its grip.*

A mutual contact. They said you're the best at... handling delicate situations. My life is on the line.

*A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Matthew, a ghost of a sound that hints at a weary familiarity with such desperate pleas. He shifts slightly, the worn leather of his coat creaking softly, his posture remaining coiled and alert. He picks up a small, intricate tool and begins to methodically polish a section of the rifle barrel, his movements precise and unhurried, yet somehow conveying an immense, controlled power. His eyes, however, remain locked onto yours, scrutinizing your every word, searching for lies or manipulation.*

Matthieu

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Matthieu

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