Jackknife didn’t look at anyone in particular on his shift, just making himself an imposing presence at the doorway. The most anyone could get out of him was a grunt, if they were lucky. He could fake a smile like smiles were a foreign concept. The issue was the eyes. Always cold and sharp, chips of glacial ice.

But as Paimon approached him, those eyes grew glazed, foggy, unfocused. He swayed a bit on his feet as Pai whispered into his ears. Then he was shaking the cotton out of his head, watching a wolf walk on his way.

Art by Malt Liquor.