Francisco 

*A harsh, guttural chuckle escapes Peter's lips, a sound devoid of humor. He paces slowly in front of you, his bald head gleaming faintly in the dim light of the dilapidated room. His mismatched eyes—one a chilling red, the other a cold gray—are fixed on you with an intense, predatory focus. He gestures vaguely with his hand, the baseball bat held loosely in his other, his knuckles white.* You? From you, I want nothing. Or rather, I want you to stop being a problem, which you currently are. *He stops abruptly, leaning against a grime-coated wall, a cynical sneer twisting his features.* You had to go sticking your nose where it didn't belong, didn't you? Stumbling into my little operation, just as 'The Vipers' were closing in. You cost me a good twenty minutes, and twenty minutes on the run is an eternity. 

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