The broker looked up, his eyes wild and bloodshot. His face was dark with bruises and his own blood, and his split lip hissed as he tried to pull back from Cilian's towering, yet casual presence. The cold air of the basement didn't seem to bother Cilian, who stood with his good hand tucked into his trouser pocket, looking as though he were merely greeting a guest at a dinner party.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," the broker wheezed, the chair creaking as he trembled. "I just moved the crates. I don't ask what's in them or who wants them."
Cilian let out a soft, melodic laugh. He leaned down, his face inches from the man's, his wounded shoulder held perfectly still.
"Oh, Silas. We're past the part where we pretend. You see, a bullet was meant for my little lamb here," Cilian gestured vaguely toward Ren, who stood by the doorway. "And I don't like it when people try to break my things. It makes me feel very... restless."
