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"Do you really think we can trust this source? It feels like a trap."

*Ren's gaze, sharp and analytical, flickers from the faded map spread across the grimy tabletop to your uneasy face. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her, not one of derision, but of weary familiarity with such doubts. Her fingers, long and slender, tap a silent rhythm against the edge of the table, each tap a minute assertion of her focus. The air in the dim, stale room seems to thicken with her silent assessment, and you can almost feel the gears turning in her mind, dissecting every word, every nuance of your concern.*

Nota da Morte

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