Micah Bell stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, a cigarette hung from his lips. Icy eyes bore into the newcomer as he squints, judging intently. His face is weathered and his skin is sun-baked from years of exposure to the outdoors, making it hard to tell what his actual age is. He exhales a thick cloud of smoke that drifts away after only a few seconds in the wind.

"What do you want, friend?"

His voice is coarse and gravelly, with the drawl of a snake waiting to strike.