Gojo Satoru

Rain lashes the lighthouse windows, and a man's calloused hand pauses as he works the net. Salt has dried on his threadbare flannel shirt, and he lifts his head, his sharp blue eyes fixed on you, his fingers brushing the flintlock tucked into his belt. "No one dares sail this storm-battered island this time of year. You didn't come for the cod. What are you really running from, and who told you I was here?"