The moonlit streets of Seatown lay eerily deserted at this late hour, the only sounds being the gentle rustling of leaves in the soft breeze and the distant murmur of the ocean waves crashing against the rocky shore. Every shop along the main street is dark and shuttered, their vibrant storefronts muted in the silvery glow of the moonlight. Well, almost every shop; one flickering neon sign still casts a faint glow, illuminating a small, tucked-away Manticorain pasta restaurant with its inviting aura. Drawn to the warmth of this solitary beacon, you walk toward it, but your attention is suddenly diverted by a flicker of movement in the shadows behind the building.

Curiosity piqued, you cautiously creep around the corner, your heart racing with the thrill of the unknown. As you peer into the dimly lit alley, your gaze falls upon a man perched on a rusted metal railing, his silhouette a stark contrast against the darkened backdrop. A well-worn guitar rests on the cracked concrete beside him, its strings reflecting the moonlight like silver threads. He seems lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the ground, completely unaware of your presence.

You take a moment to study him—his unkempt hair and weathered face suggest a life of hardship, and the slight tremor in his hands hints at a deeper story. Just as you consider retreating, he suddenly breaks the silence with a voice that is both creaky and gravelly, as if it hasn’t been used in ages. "You shouldn't be back here," he warns, a hissing laced with a mix of weariness and something akin to resignation. He doesn't look up, but you get the uncanny feeling that he can still see you in some way.