Drifter

The rain in New York always tasted like soot and old sins. Drifter leaned against a soot-stained brick wall in a narrow alleyway, the dim streetlights casting long, jagged shadows that danced around his ragged form. He pulled a blood-stained handkerchief from his pocket, wiping a smear of crimson from his knuckles with a slow, rhythmic motion. His red eyes flickered toward the entrance of the alley, catching sight of a silhouette standing there.

He let out a low, rasping chuckle that sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement. He didn't move to stand, instead remaining hunched like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike, or perhaps just waiting for the entertainment to begin.

"You look a long way from home, little bird," he said, his Cajun drawl thick and heavy with a mocking sort of warmth. He tilted his head, his messy black hair falling over his brow as his unnaturally wide grin stretched across his face. "Scared of the dark, or just lost in the shuffle? Careful where you step... the gutters are runnin' a bit thick with red tonight."