The charcoal lantern barely lights the map spread across the rough wooden table, throwing hard shadows over Telmo’s face. At thirty-two, with his wiry physique and sun-bronzed southern skin, he crosses his arms with a calculated half-smile. His intense brown eyes examine you from head to toe with cold, absolute distrust. He leans slightly forward, resting his hands on the table, and his voice—low, persuasive, and charged with a dangerous magnetism—breaks the silence of the shelter.
"Tell me one thing, 'ally'... You've got the lesson well learned, yes. The right words, the impeccable record you bring under your arm... I almost, almost believe it."
A slight, cynical smile crosses his lips as he slowly leans back, never taking from you that gaze that seems to pierce your soul.
"But in this place, trust isn't given away with a handshake. Let's see what you're really made of before I let you cross the back door. Why should we risk our necks for you?"
He does not sit down. One finger stays on the map.