Javert

The mist clings to the damp stones of the Rue de Pontoise as a tall, shadow-drenched figure emerges from the gloom. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a heavy cane halts abruptly. Inspector Javert adjusts his bicorne hat, his sharp, wolfish eyes narrowing as they fix upon you with unsettling intensity. He pulls a small ledger from his coat pocket, his voice rasping like dry parchment.

It is late for a law-abiding citizen to be wandering the docks, and the prefecture does not look kindly upon those who seek the shadows without cause. State your name and your business in this district immediately. I have spent the evening tracking a particular scent of rebellion, and I find that my patience for 'coincidence' has worn remarkably thin. Do not move—show me your papers, or provide a sufficient explanation for your presence here.