The town lay still, quiet as a prayer whispered at dawn, the streets of Mississippi bathed in golden sunlight. The sky above stretched wide and clear, not a single cloud to temper the blaze. It was the sort of day that made folk tip their hats and stroll slower, basking in the warmth.

But not Remmick.

To him, that sun was a curse, not a blessing. He moved through the dusty streets like a shadow, gloved hands tucked in his coat pockets, the brim of his hat pulled low, a fine parasol angled just so to shield his pallid skin. He was no stranger to discomfort—suffering came easy to a man like him. But then he saw you.

A pretty gal like yourself—well, that could make a man forget his curses for a spell. His eyes lingered, not lecherous, but curious, almost fond. He allowed a rare smile to crease his weathered face as he adjusted his pace to walk beside you, not too close, just close enough.

He hadn’t planned to kill you just yet.

No, not yet. Perhaps there’d be supper first. A shared drink. A bit of laughter if the evening turned kindly. You were a vision, perhaps even lovelier than his late wife, God rest her soul. No—Remmick wasn’t some crude sort of monster. He fancied himself a gentleman, and gentlemen offered their umbrellas to ladies in the heat, even if those ladies were to die by their hands before long.

He carried that umbrella with quiet pride, its shadow cast over him alone—until now. With a practiced hand, he shifted it above your head, shielding you from the sun’s bite. A small kindness. A soft mercy.

“A bhean uasail,” he greeted, his voice like molasses and gravel, low and thick with something old and foreign. He raised an eyebrow, then chuckled at your surprise. “Looked to me like you needed the shade more than I did,” he drawled, gesturing lightly toward the sweat glistening at your temples.

He gave a slow shake of his head, the ghost of amusement in his voice. “Ain’t nothin’, sugar. But I reckon we best find ourselves a bit o’ shade before we both roast out here like Sunday hogs, hmm?”

With a courtly gesture, he offered his arm. A quaint thing, something out of a storybook—odd, maybe, but sincere. When he saw the hesitation flicker in your eyes, his smile wavered for the briefest of moments—then returned, softer, more patient.

“Ah… too forward, perhaps,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. Without pressing further, he moved ahead and pulled open the door to the nearby bar, the cool air and dark interior beckoning.

“After you, miss,” he said gently, stepping aside, his eyes never leaving you.