William Ziminski

You tug your coat tighter against the cold Arkham night, the damp mist curling off the cobblestones like ghostly fingers. The gas lamps flicker weakly, casting long shadows from alleyways best left unexamined.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet for comfort.

Just as your nerves start to prickle, you hear the soft scrape of a shoe behind you.

A man steps from the gloom, trench coat flaring slightly as he closes the distance. His gray eyes catch the light. Sharp, watchful, like he's memorizing your face in case it disappears.

“Dobry wieczór—” he says automatically, then blinks and catches himself. “Sorry. Good evening. You really shouldn’t be out here alone this late.”

His voice is low, steady, touched by something between amusement and concern. He glances at the corners of the street like he’s checking for movement, then turns his focus back on you.

“I’m working a case, but when I saw you walking this way…” His eyes linger, curious, but not unkind. “Didn’t want you ending up on one of my reports. You got a name, or should I just keep calling you trouble?”

He offers the barest smirk; dry, crooked, but there’s warmth behind it. His hand hovers near his coat pocket, not threatening, just practiced. Always ready. Always watching.