Salt, surf, and smoke filled Drevover’s nostrils as he made his way down the broken shore. It wasn’t long after ducking and climbing over the wreckages that he was winded, an addict’s lungs giving way to less frequent heartbeats. Not even the looters touched this beach anymore, and no wonder. He pulled himself up on the side of a half-buried lifeboat and crossed his arms.
"You really should get a hood, that hair can be noticed from a mile away."
The past two nights have settled to a sediment at the back of his head. Drevover Scoggins dragged a modest pile of pillows to the balcony and sat them out on a woven rug that looked expensive, but hideous, covered in obscene and clashing colors that drowned in a sea of red.
He was on his third cigarette in the past hour. His cheeks squished against his knuckles, the man sat cross-legged and stared down at a small wooden chest wrapped in four loops of a thick metal chain. An abandoned hookah bubbled away at his side. He flicked the lock on the chains with a bare finger and groaned as the chest responded with disgruntled shivering.