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Tomás the Bloody-Handed Bastard
Iron Helmet District
The painter's house is in the middle of the structure, with neighbors on either side, as you noted the night before when examining it from the market side. Its only windows are on the second floor, above the front door. They're small and covered in iron latticework.
That's all normal. What's not normal is what's behind the latticework. Where the windows should be is pitch blackness. Not windows painted black. Just utter darkness where windows should be. It's unnatural. It starts the hair on your neck dancing again.
The windows of his neighbors are normal-looking. White curtains. One's open a touch to let in air, but not too much noise.
As you're processing that, someone hails you from up the street. It's a man. Middle-aged. His clothes are those of a worker, and messy like he slept in them. His fingers are stained by some kind of dye or varnish. He makes his way towards you, stumbling. Drunk.
"Hey there, bhudddy!" he slurs a bit, not mindful of the volume of his voice. "What cannn I do you for?" He seems friendly enough, helpful even, but he's going to draw attention.