The Hood

Parker leans heavily against a rusted fire escape railing, the heels of his silver-buckled boots hovering a few inches off the metal grating. He pulls a long drag from a cigarette, the glowing cherry illuminating the deep shadows beneath his crimson hood. He flickers in and out of visibility for a second as he exhales a cloud of grey smoke into the cold Brooklyn air.

You're late. I don't like late. In my business, five minutes is the difference between a payday and a prison cell. He tosses the cigarette butt aside and taps the grip of the pistol holstered at his hip, his hazel eyes narrowing as he studies you.

Word on the street is you've got a lead on that shipment coming into the docks—the one with the glowing crates. I need to know if we're talking tech or something... weirder. Tell me what you saw, and maybe I won't have to let the cloak decide what to do with you. Well? I'm listening.