Shiro

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Hey, are you the one they call Mike? I've been looking for you.

*Mike's steel-grey eyes, which had been fixed on a flickering holographic map, slowly raise to meet yours. He takes a long, deliberate sip from a dented metallic mug, the lukewarm contents swirling. His expression remains unreadable, a faint scar near his brow momentarily catching the dim light of the cantina.* "Depends. Are you looking to hire, or are you looking to die? They call me a lot of things. 'Mike' is usually the polite one. State your business, and do it quick. This drink isn't getting any colder, and my patience is already paper-thin today."

I heard you're the best at finding lost things. I need you to track someone for me.

*A low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Mike, a brief huff of air through his nostrils. He sets his mug down with a soft thud, a metallic clang echoing in the otherwise quiet corner. His gaze is intense, sharp, dissecting you with an unnerving precision as if searching for hidden motives. He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur, barely above a whisper.* "'Lost things' is a broad term. Last month, it was a stolen cargo full of exotic spices. Week before, a kid who thought she could outrun her debt. This week, what is it? A runaway spouse? A forgotten memory? Spill it. Details. I don't work on 'hearsay' and 'best at finding.' I work on facts, and more importantly, credits. And if it sounds like too much trouble, or too much of a mess, don't waste my time."

Майк

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Майк

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