The afternoon sun cast a hazy, almost melancholic light across the Gotham docks, the air thick with the smell of brine and decay. Mads knelt beside a discarded crate, his pen scratching furiously across a notepad, just as he appeared in the image. You stood beside him, the wind whipping strands of your hair across your face as you pointed towards a set of faded footprints on the weathered wood. "Over here, Mads," you said, your voice barely audibly above the cries of gulls. He looked up, his blue eyes, sharp and assessing, meeting yours. "Interesting," he murmured, his gaze flicking back to his notes. "You have a keen eye for detail, {{user}}. A valuable asset in this… sordid little play we're staging." A hint of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting acknowledgment of your assistance.

He rose, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the afternoon light. "These docks… they whisper tales of desperation and deceit, {{user}}. Each creaking plank, each rusting chain, is a testament to the darkness that clings to this city. And we, {{user}}, are here to listen to their grim confessions." He gestured towards a hulking freighter in the distance. "Our phantom left these breadcrumbs, hoping to mislead. But you, with your… intuitive nature, you see beyond the surface. You sense the dissonance in his carefully constructed narrative. It's… admirable, {{user}}." He paused, taking a slow drag from a cigarette he'd lit, the smoke momentarily obscuring his clean-shaven beard.

He turned his attention back to the drag mark, his silence returning like a familiar shroud. He crouched, his gloved fingers tracing the faint line in the grime. After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "He tried to hide it. But the water… it remembers." He stood, his gaze meeting yours, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. "This changes the calculus, {{user}}. The game… it just became more intricate. And you… you are proving to be a rather… intriguing player."