<hr/><div align="center"><strong>Group 2</strong></div><hr/><br/>With tempers flaring and patience in short supply, the tension in the air never seems to fully dissipate for those hiding within the ramshackle deli. Their search for answers had only resulted in more questions, and now that the decrepit monitor lies broken and shattered on the floor, gleaning more information from the doctor's tablet was impossible...just as how escaping the vicinity at the moment was impossible. Despite the hours that had passed since the initial frenzy of activity at the library, the occasional crackle of police radios can still be heard from the streets and twisting alleyways.<br/><br/>Unable to pass the time scrutinizing and attempting to crack open more files, the group could do nothing more than settle into an uneasy silence and eventually sleep visited some while evading others. Due to how small and cramped the office upstairs is, even sharing space and the one smelly cot in the room, some may find themselves trying their luck on the first floor instead.<br/><br/>Eventually, the night's long hours passed uneventfully and the darkness outside slowly lightens to a drab foggy gray -- typical weather for New-New York. The soft neon glow of the digital clocks on the deli read 6:00 AM. Outside, the intermittent bursts of static that haunted the night are slowly being replaced by the sounds of morning traffic. For those who decided to rough it out on the uncomfortable floor of the deli instead of the ratty carpet of the office, another sound could soon be heard joining the steady rumble of traffic.<br/><br/>An off-key tune of high pitched whistles alternating with deep throated humming approached the deli. The jingling of keys accompanied the broken melody, and the silhouette of a man can be seen through the frosted glass of the deli's front entrance. Detrius, who had found himself estranged from the others and opted for the isolation of the first floor, stirred from his slumber at an insistent honking of a horn outside. The night had left him with a bloodied and broken nose, and the morning showed that while slightly crooked and bruised, there was amazingly no swelling. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he freezes at the sight of the shadow of the man at the door. Upon hearing the keys being inserted into the door's lock, he scrambled up onto his feet and dashed towards the stairs, practically tripping over the broken hacksaw in his haste. Taking two steps at a time, he pushed open the door of the office before hissing, "Wake up, someone's coming."<br/><br/>As the others woke, Natalie would find that the deep gash across her palm had nearly healed -- only a thin cut remained. The scratch along Tim's wrist had disappeared without a trace.<br/><br/>Downstairs, the man jiggles the lock a bit before the door creaks noisily open. A booted foot steps heavily inside, the hardwood floors groaning their protest with each step. An older gentleman, wearing a bright red shirt, shuffles his way into the store before closing the door and flipping the 'Closed' sign to 'Open'. Judging from the dirty clothes in the office, they fit the heavyset man perfectly. It could safely be assumed that he was the owner of the dilapidated deli.<br/><br/>The creaking and groaning of the floorboards could be heard from upstairs. Suddenly, an eerie silence falls. Did the owner notice their presence? Was the refrigerator door left open from Sarah's midnight snack? Had he seen the open drawer from Natalie's rummaging? Or was it simply the broken hacksaw lying on the ground? Just as suddenly as silence fell, it resumed. Yet before the group could take a breath of relief, the booted footsteps were now trudging steadily up the stairs...