#302 Creatures of the Night
Sitting at a desk in his study was a rather small man. From behind he was rather nondescript. He wore his favorite bowler hat, and gloves with the finger tips exposed. The room was dark, except for one candle that he used to light the notebook he scribbled in.
Hunched, his blazer frayed at the elbows, his bare feet dangled, barely touching the floor. He let them swing aimlessly as he took comfort in the sound of the quill pen scratching the paper.
He spent years working on his memoirs and finally he had the perfect title: The Murderous Imp
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