Nth Degree. Midnight. Sitting in the lovely little book and record shop, over in the café, a short, dark-skinned man with a brutal, scarred face was staring moodily into a cup of caffeine-free chai. The journal in which he was writing had a half-filled page; one sneaking up behind him to look over his shoulder—in, indeed, such a thing were possible—would see only Inuktitut sigils, impossible for most to read. The man himself was a study in scary. His face sported both tatooes and piercings, and there were two terrible, parallel scars on his left jaw. His body was heavy-framed and muscular—he looked to be immensely strong, with the muscles of a power-lifter. He was all clad in black: jeans tucked into twenty-hole Doc Martens, a black Feindflug T-shirt and a black duster thown over all. About his neck, he wore a pendant, a surgical steel pendant that flashed over the triangular Feindflug logo. It was in the shape of a unicursal hexagram—an occult symbol used by the likes of the Golden Dawn, and by Aleister Crowley. The obsidian-black eyes glinted at the middle distance, containing equal measures of anger, sorrow and bitterness.