Hello! Welcome to my new channel! I hope I get along! Anyway, onto the delicious meat of the post.

You approach a door reminiscent to the principal's office door back in high school. The door, rather than saying "PRINCIPAL" has a large inscription of an eye, with the words "PRIVATE EYE" above the eye and "ASSASSIN" below it. You turn the bronze doorknob and push the door open. Immediately you notice a woman-a butterfly-poised in the center of the room, dimly lit by a single dying light hanging from the ceiling. She glares at you beyond her trilby hat and motions you in with her finger.

You carefully walk in. You notice to your left an array of random objects: a plastic robot head; a mangled riot control robot's head; a militant's armored helmet, almost ripped in two by a large gash in the side; a robotic leg, with wires hanging off of the synthetic femur; a fancy knife with a golden luster and the letter K carved into the side; a hard drive with the old IDE ribbon cable hanging off of the back; a rag doll, reminiscent of a little fox, made of stitched together pieces of various fabrics. To your right, three tables piled high with folders stuffed with papers below a lagging clock and a dart board with a picture of a hummingbird on it. Looking back at the woman, she pours a glass of brown alcohol, branded Albert Beckham's ++. Her desk has an old caged fan whirring right next to her feet, a knife stuck into the table, and a lit cigarette idling in an ashtray. She had a plaque that was turned backward.

You say hello to the woman and she points to a chair, prompting you to sit down. You sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair, that looked to be out of some sort of institution. Upon closer inspection of the butterfly woman, she's wearing a holster across her chest and has burn spots all over her trench coat. You sit down and beg her for a response. She turns the plaque on her desk that says "MUTE" and insists you to keep talking. She must have had a tight schedule. You tell her you have a target for her, and she does a maneuver with her hands. She points to her eye and then does an action resembling her commiting suicide.

"Watch, then kill," you say. She pulls a piece of paper out of her desk and writes something down on it. She turns it to you. It says "who." You hand her a picture of your target. A tall, white horse. Muscular, with brown eyes and a suggestible limp you caused in your last rough-up with him. You begin to describe your past with him, but the butterfly woman shushes you by tapping her desk. She then writes "what should I look for" on the page.

"Watch his bank account," you fumble to stutter out. She quickly scribbles "I can't do that." You then tell her to just follow the horse man, and look for anything suspicious. A moment of silence, aside from the fan droning on the woman's desk, blowing cigarette smoke across the room.

"So how much?" you ask. She types for a second on a mechanical calculator, then writes a number down on the paper. "10,000 up front." You beg for a lower price. She scribbles down "I don't bargain," with visible pressure on the pen.

"I don't have that much money," you weakly say.

She stands up and reaches into her coat, pulling a suppressed .45 pistol out and ushers you out of the room with it. Before slamming the door in your face, she glares at you with a colder stare than your mother-in-law. You could almost hear her say "Don't let me see your cheap ass again."