Black Anchor Trading Company

Creak.

As soon as we stepped into the shabby building, the first thing I noticed was the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. A faint smell of alcohol mingled with it, along with a musty odor of mold, but none of them came close to the harshness of the tobacco.

I raised my head and surveyed the scene through the thick haze of smoke.

'This place really reminds me of a temp agency.'

Shabby and crude.

The furniture, knickknacks, window frames—everything was coated in dust. And yet, a few spots were spotless.

It felt less like they'd been cleaned and more like they'd stayed clean through frequent use.

"It's hard to breathe."

"The owner of this place must be a heavy smoker."

"I thought it was fog."...