Ezio answers the door promptly, dressed in a well-tailored set of leather breaches and a heavily embroidered doublet over full white sleeves. He is broad-shouldered and fit, his long hair pulled back with a ribbon and his beard carefully trimmed, save for the bare streak around the scar snaking down his lip. He smiles warmly, but he carries himself seriously.

"Come in," he says, stepping back and beckoning Kovacs in.

Yes, it's an extremely Meth-looking place, give or take eight hundred years.