Mordrek sat on a broken crate behind his pathetic circus tent, the moonlight turning the stripes of the canvas into prison bars around us.
He had that familiar smirk that looked like it was borrowed from a weasel with social aspirations. The glow from the half-dead torch cast shadows on the ground that danced like they were trying to escape his bullshit.
He scratched at the stubble on his chin, like he was trying to summon wisdom through friction.
"So you want Silven Dorne," he said at last, drawing out the words as though savoring them like fine wine that had, regrettably, turned to vinegar.
"I don't want him," I corrected, arms folded tight across my chest, eyes locked on his ratty silhouette. "I want the chance to have a very unfriendly conversation with him before someone else buries my boss and pins the whole thing on me."
Mordrek nodded slowly.
