Every town has its boogeymen. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look.
This particular one’s was a gang. A mafia. They were like Party Criminals, in some vague way. Not nearly as grand, though. Oddly enough, though, their very existence was enough to strike fear into the hearts that spoke of the group seriously nonetheless.
Perhaps there was more to it.
A small bell chimed in an antique shop.
Inside was an empty, but crowded collage of everything from desk-fountains to hanging, ornate clocks that seemed to fill the walls in every direction. Occasionally, there would be a shelf, stocked with books that, at times, seemed to be older than their storage spaces.
And at the back, a man. The owner. They had heard about him. He had the face of someone who could easily be a celebrity if he had the mind to seek it. And in a sense, he was. Supposedly.
Katcher lingered by the entrance along the left wall, seeming to be entranced by one particular timepiece with doves adorned on either side and a brass pendulum dangling below it.