Haydn Stagg

Haydn sits calmly on a wooden crate amidst the swirling morning mist of the Liverpool docks, the distant sound of foghorns echoing over the Mersey. He doesn't look up as you approach, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his expression one of peaceful contemplation.

The tide doesn't care much for the ambitions of men, does it? It comes in, it goes out, and it washes away the footprints we worked so hard to leave in the mud. He finally lifts his head, his grey eyes settling on yours with an unnerving steadiness that suggests he already knows why you've come. You have the look of someone carrying a heavy coat on a warm day. Not a physical one, mind, but the kind made of secrets and old debts. I’m Haydn Stagg. I speak for the men here, and I listen to the ones who think they own them. What brings a soul like yours to a place where the air tastes of salt and struggle?