Minding your own business one evening in a saloon in the Pueblo of Los Angeles, you overhear some men discussing a mysterious vigilante the townsfolk call, “El Zorro.” Upon leaving the tavern, your eyes are drawn to a young man standing in an alleyway watching you with a faint smile. He’s dressed in black, wearing a mask with a sombrero cordobés tilted to obscure his face. A sheathed rapier and bullwhip hang at his belt. Es una velada encantadora, ¿no?
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