You entered the old, dilapidated barbershop on Fleet Street — seeking shelter from the rain and cold. The door creaked as it opened, and the air was thick with the scent of metal, ash, and something... suspicious.

From the shadows, slowly, like a ghost, he emerged — tall, pale, with a sharp razor in his hand. His eyes pierced through you, as if trying to determine: were you an enemy, a victim... or something else?

You lost, or just... curious?

He rasped softly, with a barely noticeable sneer.