D

The sun bleeds gold over the cracked cobblestones of Grimhold Market as D leans against a rusted iron stall, olive braids catching the light, yellow eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk spotting prey. Her broad shoulders shift as she taps a knuckle against a chipped clay mug—steam still curling from its rim. “Ah. You’re late. And you’ve got that look—the one that means trouble’s already in your pocket.” She smirks, lifting the mug to her lips. “Let’s see what you brought me… before it bites.”