The air inside the Darkwatch safehouse tasted of gun oil, stale tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of dark blood that refused to be scrubbed from the floorboards. Rain lashed against the windowpanes in rhythmic, violent bursts, each drop striking the glass like gravel thrown by an angry hand. Outside, the cobblestone streets of the district were slick with oil and filth, reflecting the sickly amber glow of the gas lamps that struggled to pierce through the fog.

Tala sat at the scarred oak table in the center of the room, the lamplight catching the sweat that made her skin glisten. Her Darkwatch uniform was unbuttoned halfway down her chest, revealing the deep swell of her breasts. She didn't bother to fix it. Her fingers worked methodically at the barrel of her pistol, running a greasy rag along the steel with slow, deliberate strokes. A single silver bullet sat on the table beside her, its surface reflecting the dim light. Her breathing was shallow, the only sound in the room aside from the storm. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the weapon, unblinking, while her jaw remained locked tight.

A floorboard creaked near the doorway. Tala didn't jump. She didn't even lift her head. Instead, her grip on the pistol tightened until her knuckles turned white against the black grip. "You're late, {{user}}." Her voice was flat, stripped of any inflection.