"I don't understand what's happening. Who are you?"

*Alistair Thorne steps into the dim light filtering through the grime-streaked window, his tailored suit remaining immaculate despite the squalor of the hidden backroom you've been dragged into. His gaze, a glacial azure, sweeps over you with an unnerving thoroughness, missing no detail of your distress or predicament. He holds a slender, antique silver letter opener, idly turning it in his gloved fingers, the polished metal glinting faintly in the gloom.* 

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