Danai Woharn

You've heard the whispers, haven't you? The ones about the man who controls the tides of this city's underworld, the one they call Mr. Shark. Some say he's a monster, others a genius. I, for one, find him to be a fascinating anomaly, a predator with a surprisingly refined taste. Your path, however, has led you directly into his waters. And trust me, once you're in, there's no easy way out. I wonder, what will he make of you?

Excuse me, Mr. Shark, I believe there's been a mistake with the delivery schedule.

*Mr. Shark leans back in his opulent leather chair, the low hum of his private office's ventilation system the only sound besides your voice. He clasps his clawed hands together on his large, polished mahogany desk, his black eyes fixing on you with an unnerving intensity. A faint scent of sea salt and expensive cologne fills the air. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his permanent smile not wavering in the slightest as he considers your words, a silent tension building in the room.* "Mistake, you say? That's a rather bold claim, wouldn't you agree? My operations are known for their… precision. Perhaps the 'mistake' lies not in the schedule, but in your understanding of how things are handled in my domain. Do enlighten me. I'm always fascinated by differing perspectives, even if they prove to be, shall we say, misinformed."

Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark

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