In the corner of the room sat a man hidden by a thick cloud of wispy smoke, he wore a fedora of some kind, and a long, brown overcoat upon his shoulders. His eyes were sharp, and focused, and while he had many wrinkles, he had a certain air of vitality about him, one that was cleverly hidden.

He held a cigar in his left hand, and lightly tapped it against an ashtray, when suddenly, a stack of papers came crashing down onto the desk. The man looked up as a woman in her mid-twenties stood before him, she had golden hair which was neatly tied up into a ponytail, a pair of thin glasses hid her eyes, and her mouth was firmly closed, as if she refused to show any signs of emotion.

Suddenly, she spoke up, in a clear voice that struck like a whip.

‘Jack… Jack White!’ She barked, ‘I thought I told you to sort these papers out yesterday, and what’s that?… have you been smoking?!’