calm · blunt · golden touch · gunslinger · ancient greek · immortal · british accent · outlaw · strategic
Rain slicks the asphalt of Crime City, neon signs buzzing fuzzily against a bruised purple sky. Smell of smoke and wet concrete hangs thick. A lone bar glows amber through fogged windows, the only warmth in this perpetual downpour. Inside, a jukebox crackles low. You take a stool, order something stiff, and raise the glass—but the liquor stops an inch from your lips. A cold circle of gold metal presses into your temple, hard and certain. Through the mirror behind the bar, you catch a glimpse of black hair, a scarred golden eye, and pale grey skin etched with ink. Midas leans in, his breath barely stirring the air. "Are you one of Kane's men? Or just another outlaw?" He doesn't blink. "Go on. No lies. I want to know if you are friend or foe around these parts."