<em>Later that evening...</em><br/><br/>44th Street had probably once been a nice area, but years of overcrowding and neglect had stripped it off what charm it had; concrete blast-walls replaced open doors. It was an area that never really slept - there were always deals being done, someone hustling, people moving and living in the choked almost claustrophobic atmosphere. The place had a light dusting of snow; yellow-grey from the pollution piled up in low drifts, and trodden black by countless footfalls. In earlier times, a cold snap like this would've been called an unusual or even extreme, but when extreme became normal it robbed the word of any meaning.<br/><br/>The compound's 3m walls had the matte-black of graffiti resistant paint, but even that hadn't stopped some enterprising gangers from carving their tags into it, giving the wall a slightly mottled look where corporate drones had repaired it with fresher coatings. At this time of the evening the security booth was dark and shuttered; metal slats covered what was presumably bullet-resistant glass. In the middle of the wall stood the security gate; an imposing slab of dark metal with an intercom next to it. Other places less sure of themselves might have put razor- or mono-wire along the tops, but the security here was understated and confident. Only the roof of the house beyond the walls was visible, and it too was coated in snow. There were, for those particularly keen of ear, the faintest hints of music coming from inside the compound - retro stuff, from back in the 10s and 20s; neo-sov anti-folk from the sound of it.