A few narrow side-streets lead Miguel to an alleyway filled with a haphazard maze of cardboard boxes and wooden crates. There is an odd, but comforting silence here. Only a faint breeze stirs up the warm air - which smells of sawdust - as it blows through from the east.

Miguel keeps to the shade of an overhang as he quietly moves along the alleyway. His body twists and turns to navigate around the stacks of crates. The cobblestones beneath his feet are slick with grime, evidence that suggests not many people have tread along this particular route lately.

Finally, Miguel arrives at an old metal door. Its surface is weathered and scratched. There is a small panel set at eye level. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that he's alone. With his right fist, he pounds on the door in a series of distinct knocks: four rapid, three slow and one heavy. The panel slides open and a pair of dark eyes peer out. "[i]Who goes there[/i]?" Miguel steps back, moving into the morning sunshine to reveal himself. "[i]MC[/i]," he responds. There is a moment of awkward silence before the panel slides shut. The door opens with a grinding sound. Miguel cringes, "[i]Somebody needs to oil that damn thing[/i]." He steps through, into the building. "[i]Tell me about it[/i]," the lookout responds as he shuts the door behind them and locks it. Miguel heads up a flight of stairs and through a short hallway to a wooden door. He quietly enters and joins his group. "[i]I'm here[/i]," he says.