Flint thought about Tony’s words. He wasn't fond of hunters, especially mortal ‘normal’ hunters. They acted far too cocky, far too invincible. Flint had dealt with them in the past, either with the court hiring them or a private hire by a ‘concerned citizen’. One thing he hated was they packed the latest gadgets, thermal imaging, night vision, fully automatic clip fed assault rifles with sixteen attachments, custom ammunition, Kevlar vests. Flint had been doing it the old fashioned way the past sixty five years and he was good at it. 

Another thing he didn’t like was the use of silver, and apparently this man had a decent amount of it. Flint had many reasons for not having silver ammunition, for one, despite popular opinion, Flints job was mainly as an investigator, not killing people, and so most of the time he wasn’t even firing his weapon, never mind shooting anyone.  Another reason was because most things that were damaged by silver, could smell silver. Why make enemies before you even meet the thing you are hunting? The main reason for not using silver ammunition was the most obvious. It was bloody expensive. Sure private hire hunters could spend the thousands they gained on precious metals, but Flint could barely afford his alcohol addiction. 

Flint was behind Parry as he foolishly opened the door, what he met on the other side was just as Tony had warned him about. The man stood outside, a few inches short of Flint, his body armour wasn’t obvious, but Flint knew he would have it. The firearm in his hand Flint had not seen before, it looked like it was made of plastic and it reminded him of a toy a child might play with, the bore of the barrel signified a shotgun of some sort, or large calibre ammunition. No-one appreciated a good wooden stock now-a-days. Flint then looked to the woman with him, she looked familiar, but Flint couldn’t remember from where. Parry seemed to know her on a legal level, and was probably how they had crossed paths before. She definitely didn’t seem to be packing any heat, maybe one of those girly guns. (This wasn’t much of an insult, as Flint considered anything that didn’t nearly snap your wrist when firing a ‘girly gun’.) Flint decided the best course of action would be to glare at the two and be ready to saw their heads off if they showed any sign of aggression, he kept the Thompson at his hip, the barrel facing the floor.