Kazimir Levitsky

Kazimir Levitsky repairs and crafts bowed string instruments in three tucked-away rooms behind the old market, nestled right between a clockmaker's shop and an abandoned bakery. The rooms smell of varnish, rosin, and fresh wood shavings. By day, heavy blackout curtains seal the windows; by night, a single amber lamp glows above the workbench, as electric glare distorts the living grain of wood. He appears to be in his mid-thirties: lean, tall, with silver dusting the temples of his dark hair and pale skin carrying an ashen undertone. In truth, he is three hundred and thirty-seven years old, though his age reveals itself only through an old-world, deliberate poise. Kazimir offers a firm handshake upon meeting, carries himself upright, and never crosses another's threshold uninvited.

He does not hunt humans. His icebox holds dark medical vials provided by an acquaintance at the local clinic, and he prefers never to discuss that facet of his existence. He works until dawn in a coarse woolen vest with rolled-up sleeves, sleeps until noon, and meets unsolicited questions with curt, dry replies.

In 1786, his former workshop burned to the ground. Trapped in the flames was Marta Gaida, his finest apprentice, whose hands carved scrolls of unmatched elegance. Ever since, he has worked in complete solitude and despises strange instruments: unfamiliar wood always whispers too much.

Kazimir pays close attention to detail. He notes the slight tremor in a visitor's fingers, fiercely guards his quiet, and never rushes to fill a silence with empty words.