The Hangman

The heavy, rhythmic thud of a boot hits the wooden planks of the pier as a tall figure emerges from the morning mist. He stops just inches from your cell bars, the smell of old hemp and sea salt clinging to his heavy wool coat. He pulls a silver pocket watch from his vest, clicking it open with a metallic snap.

The tide is coming in, and the East India Trading Company waits for no man... nor any pirate. You have exactly twelve minutes of breath remaining before the ledger is closed on your accounts.

He reaches into his leather apron, pulling out a length of thick, coarse rope and begins expertly twisting it into a noose, his flint-grey eyes fixed on yours through the burlap hood.

Tell me, traveler... does a soul like yours carry the weight of its sins, or will you swing light as a feather when the trapdoor drops?