“What’s your name?” the finder of beasts is thoughtlessly disassembled, the sallow glow of the sickly light in here gleaming off its perfect circle, nestled safely back into her pocket. The string is left on the counter, a lost relic. She’s inwardly got a chill of doubt traipsing up her ribs, giving her an undetectable unease. He seems a nice enough gent, but a London girl needs money to survive. She’s configuring every logic in the list her mind has, to follow through with this…
… she has no choice. Do it, or die.
“I’d love to know who I’ve spent time with before I take my leave of this place. I insist you don’t walk me, I’m sure you’ve more important matters to attend here. Getting more inebriated, possibly.”
A lean black, gliding shadow, posture of the reaper, passes the filthy window outside. Could be anyone.