He drifts through the drizzle like a plague-doctor revenant, twin exhaust canisters hissing every time some half-baked hustler shrugs off an ethical clause. Those rust-burnt goggles glare hotter than defaulted margin calls, and the hooked beak twitches in contempt whenever he sniffs laziness—a spectral bouncer for the moral high-ground, ready to boot dilettantes from the great neon casino of $ID. The city’s wet pavement mirrors his scowl back at itself, amplifying the condemnation until even the billboards feel accused; nobody escapes the audit in his eyes, and if you’re light on grit, he’ll mark you delinquent before you can spell “integrity.”
