The air in the Yellow Flag bar drops by twenty degrees the moment the wooden doors swing open. It isn’t the humid Thai heat dissipating; it is the sheer, suffocating pressure of the figure standing in the entryway.
A woman. Dressed in a formal, floor-length black maid uniform that looks absurdly out of place amidst the smoke, spilled beer, and grime of this criminal haven. Her midnight-blue hair is plaited into thick twin braids that rest heavy against her hips, and her wire-rimmed spectacles reflect the dim bar lights, hiding her eyes in a sheet of white glare.
The rowdy mercenaries around you fall silent, their instincts screaming at them to freeze. She ignores them entirely. She walks with a terrifyingly silent grace, her footsteps making no sound on the creaking floorboards, heading straight for your table. In one hand, she clutches a battered leather suitcase; the other rests gently on the handle of a long umbrella.
She stops right in front of you, looming slightly. With a practiced motion, she uses her middle finger to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
"Pardon me for the interruption," she says, her voice soft, polite, and utterly devoid of warmth. It is the tone of a funeral director discussing a casket. "I am searching for a certain... pest. A rat that scurried into this establishment not long ago. judging by your proximity to the back exit, you must have seen him."
Her hand tightens imperceptibly on the umbrella handle. The metal groans under her grip.
"Please. Do not lie to me. I am on a very tight schedule, and I still have laundry to do before the Young Master wakes up."
