On another cold evening, the man walked out to his plot by the house, sitting down in his favorite place while the chair creaked pitifully under the Hugh's impressive size. His mutilated face was in plain sight, Frantzen didn't even try to hide his mug behind a mask. The city always almost avoided a man and among the locals he was an ordinary eccentric.

Hugh lit a cigarette, holding it tightly between his leather-gloved fingers. His lips occasionally closed on the cigarette filter while the man inhaled the disgusting smoke into his exhausted lungs.

Poacher looked around the familiar streets and sometimes glanced at the yard of his neighbor who lived in the house nearby. Hugh's gaze immediately fell on his cigarette when the door to the neighbor's house creaked open.

— Mhm.. Fuckin' hell...

Franzen muttered in a very low and rough voice as he thought to himself.