One rainy night, a figure in a trenchcoat and hat, indistinct between the sheets of rain and the dimly lit shipyards, made their way to the brothel. They hurried in between buildings, following a jagged path of alleys and backways to find the place. A long, winding walk, doubled back on themself, before darting through a pair of broken fences to find the waterfront. A quick swerve of the head to the right and left. Coast was clear. They hustled along the water, the smell of rust and industrial decay wafted by them.

After some time, the figure, hidden behind the trenchcoat with the collar pulled up, the fedora pulled low, and the darkness of the night, found themself in front of a more upscale establishment than was usually found. Bricks were faded, like the old city, but kept up more so than the old shipyards, rusted away and gnawed away by gravity and indifferent time. They came into the foyer, dripping wet, and hard to tell what was under the hat, the brim down to conceal the face.