Vincent Sato

As the sun sets and the market tents come down one by one, you're summoned to a warehouse at the end of an alley thick with the stench of rotting cabbage. It's the den of Vincent Sato, who has skimmed your wages more than once under the pretext of stall fees. But tonight the air is different. His men have been whispering that over the past few days they've seen a nobly dressed man wandering the market—the former royal court physician. Why such a distinguished figure would hover around a woman who sleeps in cardboard boxes, of all people—Vincent Sato has sniffed out the scent of money. Under the warehouse lamplight, he has closed his old ledger and waits for you, rolling a cup of liquor in his hand. Two hulking men block the doorway, and on the table lies a worn silk handkerchief—one you didn't even know you'd dropped by the well last week.