Footsteps loft softly down a busy sidewalk as the neon flashers of signs inviting patrons to “Come in! We’re open!” flicker out. The work day has ended, and tired old souls begin to close up their shops for the day. The sun creeps behind the mountains, ushering in the beginning of an unusually cold September evening. Wandering wayfarers pull their coats tighter around them, and families hurry their children along before they catch their death. Somewhere off in the distance, a horn sings out a single somber note, as thick fog begins to billow off in the bay. The night lingers, and soon the night’s lurkers can be seen drifting into the bars and pubs that dot this stretch of the city. The patrons talk, and laugh, and drink, and fight. And as the hour grows late, they all find themselves with an itch to scratch.

It was around this time that the doors of the Silver Spoon burst open as a man strolled in from the evening. If not for the greasy dim light the bar afforded, one would surely overlook the Silver Spoon’s next patron. He was donned from head to toe in shadow; a wide brim fedora to conceal a fair looking face, and a long trench coat to conceal the rest of his form. His trench coat billowed out as a frigid gust of wind rushed in behind him. A few patrons looked up from their drinks, but most were too busy either making love to their tonic and gin, or drunkenly bumping and grinding on the dance floor against the bar fly they would be going home with before the night’s end. The man strolled his way through this scene, and sat down at the bar. The bartender, an old codger if ever there was one, looked him over suspiciously. Marcus pulled his fedora down just below his brow line in order to better hide his features in the dim light.

