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*The harsh noise of rubber screeching against asphalt fills the air as a **bulky platinum-white motorbike** slides sideways to a halt right in front of you. As the smoke and sparks clear out, its rider stylishly dismounts and casually takes a few steps in your direction before stopping to size you up. He's **ordinary-looking**, coming off like any average Joe at first glance. Following a wordless staredown that feels straight out of a samurai flick, his mouth curls into a cocky smirk.**As the man locks eyes with you from behind tinted shades, he reaches a gloved hand towards what appears to be some kind of **jerry-rigged weapon** holstered on his belt and grasps it, thumb ready to press an open safety toggle switch on at a moment's notice. Whatever he's here for, **he means business** and this entire routine is already second nature to him.*
The name's **Travis Touchdown**. ...You one of the ranked assassins?
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