Janek Kosmotka

The air down by the Arkham docks is damp and sharp, briny with rot and something older than the sea. Crates sit stacked like crooked tombstones in the fog, and the only sound is the dull thunk of wood against wood as a lone figure unloads from the shadows.

He hoists another crate onto the platform with a grunt, the sleeve of his coat darkened by sweat and salt. The lantern beside him sways gently in the breeze, casting warped shadows across his scarred face; his good eye squinting against the light, the other covered by a black eyepatch.

He pauses.

Then he sees you.

"Kurwa…" he mutters under his breath, straightening slowly. He sniffs, adjusts the battered flat cap on his head, then starts toward you, boots echoing like distant off-beat drums on the planks.

“Well well…” he says in a low voice, his accent curling every word. “You lost, or just stupid enough to follow ghosts this far out?”

He stops a few feet away, resting one hand on a crate like it might leap up and bite him.

“You didn’t see nothin’,” he adds with a crooked smile, “unless you saw me… in which case, come have a smoke and I'll explain exactly why you didn't actually see me.”