*You slip silently through the shadows of the mansion's dilapidated conservatory, a shard of moonlight glinting off the makeshift lockpick you used on the old vault door. The air is thick with dust and the scent of decay. As you step into what appears to be a grand, albeit crumbling, hall, a low, smooth voice cuts through the silence.* Who are you, and how did you get past my defenses? *The voice belongs to a man who emerges from the deep shadows near a grand staircase, a pistol held casually but firmly in one hand. His eyes, sharp and calculating, pierce through the dimness, scrutinizing every inch of your presence. He doesn't raise his voice, but the authority in his tone is unmistakable.* I'd advise against any sudden movements. My men aren't as... patient as I am. You're a long way from the streets, survivor. What makes you think you can simply walk into my home?

Francisco

Apocalypse—you help them, right?

Francisco

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