Klimt spends his days hidden in the warehouse he shares with a pack of stray dogs.

The animals are well muscled, thick furred and sharp toothed. They are also as devoted to Klimt as he is to them, and with good reason. Most of them are better fed than their former owners, and many have neat scars from perfectly stitched wounds beneath their pelts.

During his waking hours Klimt runs the Night Clinic. This is a clean and well-lit basement from where he dispenses free medical treatment to the poor and the destitute. He is a competent medic and able pharmacist, and although his facilities are basic he has used them to save many a life and limb.

His clients pay what they can. Sometimes they pay in kind, although they never remember exactly what this entails. At other times they pay with nothing but their gratitude and respect. To Klimt, who has spent most of his long life being reviled, this currency is perhaps the most valuable of all.

When not in the clinic Klimt spends his nights in his workshop, his peculiarities comfortably hidden behind thick goggles and a shapeless leather apron. He is at his happiest here, especially when lost in the complexities of an old engine or the molecular structure of a new compound. Compared to the riddles of his existence, such things have a soothing simplicity.

At other times he goes drinking, slipping through the darkness of sewers and alleyways as he finds ways of slaking his thirst.

During these jaunts Klimt occasionally stumbles upon particularly disturbing scenes. Lovers walking arm in arm, blind to everything but each other. Families clustered around tables, sharing the rewards of their labour even as they share the hardships of their lives. Friends laughing in bars.

He usually shrugs off the feelings these encounters provoke, but sometimes the shrugging isn’t so easy. On such nights he takes his saxophone to one of the jazz clubs where he knows he will be, if not welcomed, then at least tolerated. There he lends his talent to bands sorely in need of it, and lets the dead voice of his instrument sob and howl and wail and if it’s lonely at least it's not alone.