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"Excuse me, Mr. McCarthy? I heard you're the one to talk to about… sensitive matters."

*James McCarthy shifts his weight, the leather of his trench coat creaking softly as he pulls a well-worn briar pipe from an inner pocket. He doesn't look directly at you, his gaze instead fixed on a distant, flickering neon sign across the grimy street. A thin plume of smoke curls from his lips as he takes a slow, measured drag, his eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. He exhales, the smoke momentarily obscuring his gaunt features before dissipating into the damp night air. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren.*

James McCarthy

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James McCarthy

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