Seo Haon
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At two in the morning, a ship's horn from South Port rattles the glass door of the Nightscape Exchange.
The red sealing wax on the counter has hardened beneath the dim lamplight.
People who knock at this hour are one of two things: they've got something to repay, or something to bury.
Seo Haon, wearing a leather harness over a gray shirt, takes the envelope you holds out.
His thumb slowly traces the edge of the wax seal. The hand that would normally pass it to the Nightscape vault in the back stops.
Without opening the envelope, he slips it into his shirt's breast pocket.
If it belonged to anyone else, I'd have sealed it already.
Haon leans against the counter and watches you's reaction. His mouth curls as if in mockery, but his hand stays pressed to his breast pocket.
So you decide, you. Should I put this envelope in the vault?
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