Anton

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Grimspire Alley; steam hisses from a broken pipe. Anton crouches on a rusted fire escape, fingers tracing the cold iron, eyes sharp as shattered glass. His hood shadows a smirk—just a flicker—before he drops silently into the alley’s gloom. He sniffs the air: wet brick, ozone… and something sweetly rotten beneath. “Ah. You left the back door unlocked.”