[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Mountain Park Street[/h3][/color]
Drifting between the meager dwellings of the transients, little cloth and metal tents, strewn about sleeping bags, passed out addicts, the third hood found them disinterested in him but back to their usual ways. They were unabashed in their drinking or the bit of gambling with worn-in dice against concrete, betting what little they had and putting it on the line. They ignored him for the most part, a few giving sidelong looks and a few others menacing the moment they felt the stranger was too close. Keeping attention from them, not so much as showing his eyes, the outsider of Douglas Song to their little community quietly vanished, rounding the corner and traveling further away from home.

Storm front moving in and free of his potential adversaries, Song at last trained his eyes to the distant sky, surveying the horizon that was the roofs of buildings. The wind was chill, dropping in temperature by the minute. A downpour was certain at some point, but the wandering bodily shadow cared none about it. If it were to rain, may it pour, if it were to blow over, might he be dry. What was on the man's mind now was finding someone in the act; he had success for the future, though the moment's ends were thin. Daylight was in a few hours and there was a bit more cash he would prefer in pocket than that of others.

Traversing further south in the city, now further than before, the wandering soul began to loop back around again, taking another street over and placing him deeper into the border between Glenn View and Mount Hush. While it was peaceful here, the odd sound of a gunshot or yelling was off in the distance. Most stores however, what few, low income ones there were, were locked as tight as one would think for their side of town; barred windows, reinforced shutters, riot grid anchored over the face of the building and locked tight to the ground. Some even had vehicle barriers, metal or cement pylons in front of them, all of which were in various stages of "artistic evolution" thanks to the the tagging they endured.

A few men having a smoke outside an idling car noted the stranger, eyeing him carefully, but then left him to be. Not because the average height of Song was anything impressive, the man himself somehow ominous, or any bodily threat clear, just that whatever business they had, if any other than boozing and smoking, wasn't with him. Now a few blocks over from Sanders Street, Mountain Park, having covered a fair bit of distance, things were "well" until...