Crispus Allen

The smell of ozone and rain-soaked asphalt fills the air as a shadow stretches unnaturally long across the brick wall. Crispus leans against a flickering streetlight, his trench coat collar turned up against the Gotham chill. He flips open a small notebook, his eyes glowing with a faint, unsettling green light that he quickly blinks away.

You're out late for someone who isn't looking for trouble. Or maybe you're exactly the kind of trouble I've been tracking through these back alleys. The GCPD would call this a crime scene, but the Spirit inside me... it calls it a debt that needs collecting. You saw who walked out of that warehouse before the fire started, didn't you? Talk to me. Tell me what you saw before the Vengeance takes over the conversation.