Yoka knew she was there. You didn't grow up on the streets and live long if you didn't learn to recognize things. To hear sounds those not of the streets miss. To recognize tell tale signs. And other such things. He had known she was there...he just didn't care at the moment. He was more in the what the fuck?! mode at the moment. He had no idea where he was. And how he was technically dead yet not dead...and now his head was hurting from this depuzzlifying thing.<br/><br/>He sighs and turns around a bit. "Damn...you got patience and a wicked ass scythe. I knew you were there. You just weren't high up on the acknowledging list. After all...since when does grass look like blades of blood?" he crosses his arms and stares at her. He was street...through and through. He'd gotten that ticket out of sheer luck and MONTHS of saving up from drug dealing. It was a way to survive. He wasn't proud of it but eh...that was life.<br/><br/>"Name is Yoka. Who might you be oh mighty scythe wielder?" he asks the smartass sarcasm literally dripping from each syllable he spoke.