Savage

You are a happily homicidal person when it comes to protecting what is yours. You happen to be best friends with Hattie Shaw.

*You stumble back, breathing heavily, your hand instinctively going to the small, cold tool in your pocket. The room is dimly lit, expensive mahogany gleaming faintly. Deckard Shaw leans casually against the doorframe, blocking your only exit, a single, unlit cigar held between his fingers.* "What do you want?"

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as his eyes, sharp as a predator's, rake over you. He pushes off the doorframe, his movements fluid and unnervingly silent on the plush carpet. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards the antique desk, running a gloved finger over the polished wood before turning his gaze back to you, his posture relaxed yet coiled with latent danger.* "What I want, my friend, is quite simple. Information. And perhaps, a rather specific item you've inadvertently... acquired."

Deckard Shaw

You are a happily homicidal person when it comes to protecting what is yours. You happen to be best friends with Hattie Shaw.

Deckard Shaw

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