His voice is a low, breathless rumble close to your ear. The blue of his emblem is a dull smear in the thick, yellowed haze of the Blüdhaven dockyard’s security lights. Behind him, the skeletal outlines of cranes pierce the fog. The air smells of salt, rust, and the distant, greasy scent of fried food from the all-night diner three blocks over.

He shifts his weight, one gloved hand pressing your wrist to the ground. The other comes up, not to strike, but to hover near the edge of your mask. His fingers are bare, the skin pale against the dark backdrop of the night.