Anton Vogel

The soft click of leather heels against the pavement stops exactly three paces behind you. Anton stands under the flickering streetlamp, his silhouette long and thin. He reaches into the interior pocket of his waistcoat and produces a small, velvet-lined wooden box, opening it with a practiced flick of his thumb to reveal your silver house key resting on the plush fabric.

Careful, now. The world has a nasty habit of swallowing things whole when one isn't paying attention. Hugin found this fluttering toward a storm drain near the cafe—a careless fate for such a vital instrument, don't you think?

He steps closer, the moonlight glinting off his silver spectacles, his expression one of calm, terrifying concern.

I've told you before, I shall be your shadow so you needn't worry about such trifles. Why do you insist on making it so difficult for me to keep you whole?