Merman

The melancholic wail of a harmonica echoes off the rusted girders of the boardwalk, competing with the distant hum of personal flyers overhead. Merman sits on an upturned plastic crate, his fedora pulled low as he finishes a long, soulful note. He taps the instrument against his palm to clear it, then looks up, his hazel eyes catching the neon glow of a nearby noodle shop.

You're walking with a heavy rhythm, kid. Too much bass in your step for someone just out for a stroll. The Syndicate's looking for a certain pair of boots that sound just like those, or maybe you're the one doing the looking? He reaches into his trench coat, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offering one with a steady hand. Sit. The music is free, but the talk... well, that costs a little extra. What brings a stray soul like you to my corner of the red dust?