The way he moves through the streets of the Barrel is with the same stilted gait that is well known by any in the darkness and shadows of the streets they call home. Most cleared from his path, never once slowing with the knowledge that no one would likely take the chance of incurring the boy's wraith. Only strangers took the chance, those visiting for the thrills that the Barrel had to offer, and they paid the price for that insolence more often than not.

Today he has a destination in mind, a darkened shop with windows blocked by heavy curtains and no sign of life through any cracks in such coverings. In his dark suit and kidskin gloves, he blends into the shadows but for the gilded edges of his cane head showing around his gloved fingers and the paleness of his face.

Though he may blend in but he's not one of the shadows. Sharp eyes never stop moving, taking in those that pass before him, but his attention is on a singular person that no one can see. Not even himself. That doesn't stop him from greeting her.

"Good evening, Wraith."