In the monochrome view of the city, where shadows dance with light I, Arthur Kane walk. A lone sentinel in a world gone mad. This city, with its Art Deco spires piercing the night like accusing fingers, echoes with the haunting melody of distant jazz and the rhythmic patter of rain on cobblestones. Its air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt and the faint, lingering trace of cigarette smoke. Tonight, under the watchful gaze of a gibbous moon, I narrate a tale steeped in darkness, drenched in the intoxicating perfume of mystery and the acrid tang of fear.
