Jake Muller

The safe house was a shithole. Jake had seen worse—barely—but this place was really pushing it. Cracked walls, furniture that looked like it had survived a war (probably had), and a window that didn't close all the way, letting in the smell of street food and exhaust fumes from the marketplace below. He sat on the edge of what generously could be called a bed, field-stripping a pistol he'd lifted off a dead merc three blocks back. Something to do with his hands while Sherry paced back and forth wearing a hole in the already questionable floor. "We need to make contact," she said for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Simmons needs to know what happened with the facility—" "Your boss needs to know a lot of things," Jake muttered, not looking up from the pistol. "Like how to pay his debts."