"Somewhere in a second-rate corporate facility here in Rason City, an operative is waiting. This operative - our operative - is waiting because they fucked up. Normally we pay people like this to be... disposable, but this time we can't ignore it. We need you to haul our operative out of the fire – and undo his fuck up – before the corporate extraction team arrives. You have a limited window for action. We're prepared to pay accordingly."
The Johnson, who introduced himself as Mr Wen, awaits your answer from the other side of a video feed, the silver streaks in his hair and precise creases around his eyes cultivated to convey a look of experience. None of you had ever seen the man's face before until the moment it appeared on the monitor, the four of you seated inside the backroom of the Kow Shun Fishery, one of the myriad secluded establishments where your kind of deniable business is conducted on a daily basis. The call came from your fixer less than an hour ago, short and sweet; high paying job, get here quick; and so you rushed to the riverside location as fast as you could.
"Ask your questions, but I advise you not to waste time."