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An stocky man sat in a luxurious chair, reaching behind his ear to retrieve the dog-end of a cigar.
A match was struck and used to light it, it took a fair amount of little puffs, but the flame eventually took.
”They aren’t my best,” admitted the man, in voice filled with gravel, using his yellowed fingers to scratch his vest, “But then you required hands urgently.”
He leaned back in his chair, putting his shoes on the desk that stood before him, observing the well-armoured man that sat on the opposing side of the desk.
“We can meet them now, if you like,” he said finally.
“Absolutely,” replied Ben.
