The hooded figure slid the bag across the table. You peer inside. “Where the hell did you find this??”

“I have my secrets,” the black-clad thief and spy says. “Do you want it or not?”

“I do, but—“ you bluster, “I can’t very well— the thing was in the temple and there’s been no reports of it being stolen! Is it even genuine?”

“You’d be surprised about how many fakes have been made,” they snicker, “and how many are exactly the same look and shape, even weight, as the original.” They stand. “Take it or leave it, but I’m getting the money regardless, and I’m leaving now. The smell of this place makes me sick.” They sniff disdainfully at the bar around you— mostly empty, with a few drunken men and a bartender. You sniff the air. It smells like pigs and wine.

“Fine.” You toss them the bag. Picking it up, the figure makes their way to the door as you sigh inwardly. They’re your best client, even though they’re expensive. Still, you can’t help but mutter, “Teenagers and their goth phases…”

The figure turns. “It’s not a phase.” They flick a knife and you duck. It shaves off half your hair, sticking to the wall. “Have a good time at the barber tomorrow.” The door swings open and they vanish into the night. You rub your head. The object is not worth this.