It was a great room. The fourth-floor of building three was all for Zonin. Its windows opened to a great view of downtown. It was tastefully upholstered, with a leather swiveling chair behind a large, expensive desk made of some sort of exotic, expensive wood. A couch sat in the corner of the room, and several simple wooden chairs were propped up against the wall.

On a clothes rack next to the desk, a grey cloak, studded leather vest cotton shirt along with studded cotton pants hung, pressed and ready for use.

Zonin sat back, his legs propped onto his currently clear desk. He began to fiddle with the iron ring on his left hand... and waited.