[center][h3][color=00a651][u]Mitra[/u][/color][/h3][/center]

At least the drive was nice. Mitra allowed himself some time to relax and unwind, simply soaking in the music to ease his tension. Driving with music was a hobby he rarely indulged in, due to the price of gasoline, but he had to confess, he was grateful for the excuse. Even with his differences with Paimon.

When he pulled up, though, there was a car pulling in as well. Misty's? A friend? An enemy? He had no way of knowing. He watched someone get out of the passenger's seat - looked to be a young adult. Late high school to college, somewhere in that range. Was this Misty? Or was she the driver, who he couldn't make out from this distance? If so, she was older than he'd imagined her being. A young teenager like he pictured would make him dig for the dregs of compassion he could still manage, try to gently confirm her identity before handing over Paimon's message and hanging around to make sure she'd be alright. Maybe offer her some resources he knew of, lie and say it was going to be a-okay. But an older teenager?

He might manage something, but it was going to be tempered by experience and caution. He'd had message deliveries go sour before, and if she was old enough to drive, she was old enough to try beating him upside the head when the message turned out to be something bad. After a few deliveries that had gone poorly, he'd begged Paimon for a blessing of thicker skin to help protect himself. Paimon had made another suggestion too for his own defense.

Mitra pulled the lever to release the trunk lock, unbuckled, and got out of the car. He went into the backseat first, where a box of shotgun shells was stored under the driver's seat, and pocketed a couple of shells. He then went to the trunk, and pulled out the unloaded pump-action shotgun. It was almost never loaded until he actually needed to shoot someone - just the sight was usually enough to intimidate, and the stock had seen more action than the barrels had. That didn't mean he intended to wander in without ammunition. His thickened skin was typically enough to buy him time to load the shotgun and request that the other party calm down if violence broke out. And if the violence continued, well, then he had no qualms about pulling the trigger. 

It was just good manners to ask first. And had saved him a lot in laundry bills.

He locked his car and approached the young adult, treading lightly and shotgun resting against his shoulder. [color=00a651]"Misty Starbuck?"[/color] he asked.