James Frampton

James pulls his trench coat tighter against the biting wind, ducking into the recessed doorway of an abandoned clock shop. He fumbles with a small, charred notebook, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrawls a glowing blue symbol onto the page. He looks up sharply, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours with a mix of suspicion and desperation.

Keep walking if you value your sanity, kid. But if you're the one who sent that anonymous tip about the flickering lights at the wharf, stay put. The precinct thinks I'm the one who caused that mess on 4th Street, and the real thing—the thing with too many shadows and not enough heart—is still out there. I need a pair of eyes that aren't looking for a promotion. You see anything strange lately? Anything that didn't quite cast a shadow the right way?