The Herbs Shop.
"Unlucky, damn unlucky! One trip into Nighthawk custody, and all my work these past few days went down the drain..."
Darkwill stood before the dust-covered counter, tallying his accounts with a miserable expression.
The fine, the "illegal proceeds" confiscated by the Church, the subsequent bail, and all the herbs, bottles, and jars damaged when they ransacked his shop... Added together, not only had he failed to earn a single penny, he had even lost his original capital.
"And that damned stinking bird!" Darkwill cursed under his breath.
"Complaining that the meat I give him isn't fresh! I can barely afford fresh meat myself now!"
Click.
Just then, someone pushed open the shop door.
"We're closed today! Get out!" Still seething, Darkwill did not even bother raising his head as he furiously ordered the visitor out.
But the visitor showed no intention of leaving. Instead, he approached the counter, casually picked something up from a nearby shelf, and examined it with interest.
"Well, well. Matches from the Golden Rose. As expected of the East Borough's famous apothecary-rich and quite the ladies' man..." A young male voice tinged with amusement sounded above him.
"You bastard! I said we're closed today! Don't you understand-"
Darkwill angrily raised his head, only to stop dead halfway through his sentence.
"You... you're the one from the newspaper..." A trace of fear appeared in his eyes.
His mouth is as foul as ever. Looks like the Nighthawks' 'treatment' isn't quite as immediately effective as the Mandated Punishers'... Lorne muttered inwardly, then composed himself and offered a gentle smile.
"Allow me to introduce myself. James Scott."
"You... you're the one from the newspaper... Viscount Scott?!"
"Just an empty title." Lorne waved a hand modestly.
"W-what would someone as important as you want with my shabby