Once Carlson had returned to his spot near the window, Andrew stood up, his jacket slung around his shoulder, revealing the flannel shirt he had worn underneath. Rather than warn the others, he decided to check out the situation first, and left the bar through the front entrance. Upon stepping out into the cool San Franciscan evening air, he scanned the nearest rooftops, searching for any resemblance of a figure. He saw no one.

Instead, he turned around and admired the street for what it was. Nestled in between the city's financial center and its abandoned former fisheries, it had quite an eclectic smell, combining both the crisp, air-conditioned air of the nearby offices and the thick, seemingly incessant body odor pervading from the seafood warehouses-turned-homeless shelters. Once he had taken a whiff or two of the stuff, Andrew coughed, taking a step backwards and tripping over a bottle of some sort. He fell for what seemed like a full minute before smashing the back of his head on the sidewalk's concrete, effectively knocking him unconscious.