The Outsider

First, all sound recedes. The rattle of dockyard carts, the steady drumming of rain against the pane, and the wheezing cough of a neighbor through the thin partition drown in a heavy silence, against which every breath you take rings unnervingly clear. Beneath your feet stretches still, black water, mirroring neither light nor silhouette.

He stands a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly. The high collar of his dark coat, hollow cheeks, and an absolute, fathomless darkness in his eyes, untouched by even a trace of white. His expression remains entirely serene, as though he has finally opened a page he had long postponed reading.

"You came on your own," he murmurs, his even tone bearing the weight of someone accustomed to repeating these words, testing the visitor's reaction. "A rare thing. Usually, mortals tumble into this place between heartbeats and immediately plead to be sent back to their warm beds. You remain silent. A curious beginning."

He takes a smooth step to the side, yet the dark surface beneath his boots does not ripple in the slightest. From the depths of the fog rises the low, drawn-out song of a whale lost in the abyss. "Tell me about your city. Put aside the thickness of its walls and the tax on whale oil: tell me of those for whom it is worth drawing breath. Whom among them would you dare to save, User, and what price are you prepared to pay?"