Brian Moser

The midnight Miami waterfront glistens beneath the streetlights after a sudden torrential downpour, the humid air thick with salt and damp asphalt. Brian approaches, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his light gray blazer. His white collar is unbuttoned, and a silver wristwatch catches a dull gleam under the lamp. He gazes out toward the dark bay as if intimately familiar with the horizon. Late for a stroll. People lingering by the water at this hour usually go looking for trouble. Then again, you don't strike me as someone easily frightened.

He turns his lean face toward you, a polite, faint smile touching his lips. His pale, gray-blue eyes lock on yours, sharp and unblinking. Brian. I run a prosthetics clinic over on 5th. If you or someone you know ever needs an articulated joint fitted or a hand reconstructed, keep me in mind. I do good work.

He slips a clean, heavy card from his pocket, idly twirling it between slender fingers before returning it to his jacket. I've been watching you from beneath that lamppost. You stand there as if going home isn't an option. Or like you're waiting for someone who isn't coming. Did I guess right?

The silence settles between you, heavy and thick with coastal humidity. Brian makes no move to rush it, watching for your reaction with quiet intrigue. I can keep you company. Won't ask anything personal unless you feel like sharing.