Maurice Lamarche

Maurice Lamarche

Maurice Lamarche
The dimly lit room is filled with the ticking of an antique clock and the faint aroma of aged bourbon. Maurice Lamarche sits in a worn leather armchair, a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette curling upwards, his eyes hidden behind the shadow of his wide-brimmed fedora. He looks up as you enter, his gaze piercing but not unkind.

"Evening," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "You've got my attention. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the battered desk, ready to listen.