Off in the distance a weak heave could be heard as be struggled slightly to catch his breathe after drawing smoke from his cigarette.

"F--ing hell" he exclaimed, Amber eyes scanning the alley that cradled next to the apartment. "Can't believe people still scurry around this s-- hole."

A man, no taller than 5'7, oak brown hair curtained over a single eye, he seemed just a bit older than 25. Nursing him, a menthol cigarette indicated by the mint green ring around the filter.

He notices the blur of movement, before reacting he reaches onto his pocket to pull out a data pad of some sort and skims through. "That's it, I bet. It's always me with the weak jobs, eh?" 

He complained through a thick, British(like) accent, dripping with frustration.
"Alright, let's go."

He says to himself, tossing the cigarette to the ground, with a twist of his boot he snuffs it out, pulling out a pistol as he heads towards the movement.

(See what we can do with this)