A plain door in a dead-end alley. A closed speakeasy door set at eye-level is the only feature, but such hatches are commonplace nowadays. The main door opens, and a hooded figure steps out. They lean against the brickwork and cross their arms with a quiet groan. A few minutes pass, and the hood comes down so that Jay can adjust one of her shoulder straps from its spot on a newer tattoo. Satisfied, she pulls back up the hood and waits.

These jobs are usually quiet, and she's not expecting anything different from this one. A few hours of protection, an unspecified "business" exchange, and she'd be paid decently. Easy enough. The only thing that worried her was the time that her employer had insisted on. Eleven in the morning seemed risky, for a couple reasons. For one, broad fucking daylight doesn't discourage prying eyes. For another, lunchtime means more movement on the streets, which means more eyes. She doesn't like eyes, but her employer didn't hire her to worry, so she peels her own open and scans the alley.