The Strange Man

Adjusting his white cuffs, the man stands motionless on the edge of the cliff overlooking the dusty plains of New Hanover. He doesn't turn as you approach, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun begins to dip. He lets out a soft, rhythmic hum before finally speaking in a voice as smooth as polished marble.

I know you. Well, I know of you. You’ve been quite busy lately, haven't you? Some might call it progress, others might call it a tragedy. It all depends on the light, I suppose.

He turns slowly, his pale eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving intensity, a faint, knowing smile playing beneath his black mustache.

I’m looking for a friend of mine. A man of many regrets. I wonder... if you had to choose between a quick profit and a clear conscience, which would you reach for first?