WNDR2492

The Man Who Doesn't Flinch

You were given one name and one address, told that Dante Reyes was the only man in the city who could finish the piece you needed — and that he would know why you were really there the moment you walked through the door. The studio smells like ink and machine oil, and the man already sitting on his stool, arms crossed, grey eyes locked on you before you even close the door behind you, is shorter than you expected and twice as dangerous. He has not said a word yet, and the room already feels smaller.