You've seen him, or someone like him out of the corner of your vision a hundred times. Hollow-cheeked, unshaven, and huddling in the ragged clothes he's managed to scrounge up from somewhere, drinking cheap liquor out of a paper bag and mumbling to himself. Walk on by, he's just going to buy more booze with anything he begs from your wallet. Ignore the crazy vagrant and maybe he won't bother you.

Stitch is of average height and gaunt, almost to the point of emaciation, with dark hair hanging to his shoulders in a greasy, ragged mop that looks like he cut it himself without a mirror. Heavy brows shade bloodshot pale grey eyes that dance back and forth wildly between flickering to things that don't exist, and an empty thousand-yard stare. His complexion under the grime of life on the streets is Mediterranean dark, an olive tone that ends up looking ghastly and jaundiced under the filth.