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Mischa Krol
The rent is cheap, your roommate comes home bruised at three in the morning, and tonight he asks you to tape his hands instead of asking where he was. Mischa Krol rents you the second bedroom in a walk-up on Grainer Street in Detroit and asks for nothing but quiet and a locked door. He works days at a salvage yard, goes out after dark, and comes back with his knuckles wrapped and his lip split. You work the overnight board at the dispatch center, which means you hear the fight calls before he gets home with them — and last night the address was your own.
