Kara the Razorheart stared at the child in front of her.
She couldn't be older than... 12, if that. She was definitely out of place in this hive of scum and villainy Kara'd tracked her prey to, with nothing but a bloody sigil and a bare handful of rumours to go on. She wasn't one to toot her own horn, but Kara really was that good. And she never could resist a seemingly impossible challenge.
Strangely, none of the usual rough customers, a bunch of disgusting thieves and sadistic murderers, most of whom she'd seen on too many wanted posters over the years, seemed to come anywhere near the girl, who was fastidiously sipping a fruit juice using both hands from what was probably the only truly clean glass in this sleazy hole in the ground bar.
Everyone else seemed to be minding their own business. No arguments. No fights. Only silence.
It was freaking out all the finely honed bounty hunting senses that had helped build the Razorheart legend.
