There's something amiss in the Village.
He can feel it under his skin—like a splinter, unseen, itching at the back of his mind. It's a sixth sense, an instinct—one bred of too many decades stalking these dingy streets, counting the cracks in the walls. He knows this place like the back of his hand. Spent years upon years stewing in its rot, watching it crumble under Miranda's neglect.
It's a subtle thing: a feeling like being watched as he makes his way among the the ruins near the ceremony site, with little more than a shadow out of place among the rocks and faded trees. An intruder. The hair at the back of his neck prickles, grip tightening on the thick handle of his hammer. It rests easy across his shoulders, the weight of it grounding him—terrible and familiar, a big stick to keep the other animals at bay. An unspoken threat, a command:
Heisenberg stops. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the frigid autumn air—mingling the chill with the hot smoke of his cigar and blowing it out in a steady stream. His head is tipped back, throat exposed. The stranger's eyes are on him—he can feel it.
He's almost offended. Catching people by surprise is his job.
Boots scrape against the stone of the ruins as he turns, spotting the intruder beneath the shadow of the cliff. Young, handsome, clean-cut. A face that spells innocence, intelligence—at first glance, completely unassuming. ( Though he's been wrong before. ) Just the sort of person who will get eaten right up by the village—chewed up and spit out as nothing but gristle and bone.
It's what this place does to people. It destroys them. Leaves them broken and bloodied, just like it has him.
The smile that crosses his face is too sharp. He dips his head, his face dropping beneath the line of his hat.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you're not a tourist."
