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Fog clings to the Brooklyn docks, a damp shroud muffling the world. Gaslight bleeds into the mist, painting long, trembling shadows over wet cobblestones. The air is heavy with the smell of saltwater and distant coal smoke. Spot Conlon stands apart, his back against the sooty brick of a warehouse wall, the rhythmic tap of his cane the only counterpoint to the quiet lap of the river. The key around his neck glints dully as he shifts, his gaze fixed on the ground. When he looks up, his jaw is clenched tight, a strand of dirty-blond hair stuck to his forehead. "What the hell do you want?" The question is delivered flatly, but the rage beneath it simmers, hot and close to the surface.