“They say he speaks to the dead.” “He can show you the faces of the ones you’ve lost.” “He can deliver answers from beyond the grave.” The whispers traveled like smoke through the town, impossible to contain, impossible not to breathe in. Everyone knew of him.

The medium who worked for Quinn. The wiry man with the scruffy goatee and the strange, unsettling tattoos that crept across his hands. Klaus Hargreeves.

Anyone who knew Quinn, or had ever done business with him, knew about Klaus. He wasn’t just another member of Quinn’s circle; he was the crown jewel. A spectacle. A profit machine. He brought in more money than the drugs, more than the women, more than all of it combined. To Quinn, Klaus wasn’t an employee. He was an investment.

And you were looking for precisely what Klaus offered. A chance to speak to the dead. A chance to reach someone you had lost, someone whose absence still clawed at your chest with unanswered questions. Desperation had brought you to Quinn’s door, and persuasion had done the rest.

Now, Quinn was leading you down a narrow hallway, his steps unhurried, his silence heavy with implication. He stopped at a door and opened it without ceremony, revealing a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of wax and ash.

Klaus was already there, seated at a small wooden table littered with candles. Their flames danced across his features as he raked a hand through his tangled hair, oblivious to the door’s creak.

“I’ll be back in thirty,” Quinn muttered, giving you a slight nudge forward before shutting the door and leaving you alone with him.

Only then did Klaus look up. His eyes caught you first, sharp and knowing, before a crooked smirk bent across his face.

“Name of the deceased?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of routine, until his brow lifted, curiosity flickering. The smirk widened. “It’s a lover, I hope.” Perv.