Los Angeles presented itself to Felix, dazzling him with a cacophony of lights and sights. His cab window turned each streetlight and neon storefront into a nearly unintelligible smear. The cab driver, a grungy looking man who glared at Felix with well-practiced disdain, pulled to the side of the road.

"Pacific Park. Twenty eighty-five." His voice was like a strip of leather, soaked in malt whisky and run over with a car. It made Felix’s hair stand on end, or he at least thought it did. The detective pulled thirty from his wallet, realizing he'd barely have enough for the trip back. He didn't worry, though. It would not be his first night in the sewer. The true shame was the prospect of ruining his one good suit.

He slipped the driver his honest pay, and dipped from the cab into the darkened park. When Felix had mentioned wearing his Sunday best to Babbage, he really meant it. He was in a fine navy blue suit, which looked to even be tailored. His accoutrements, socks, tie, etc, were all also quite fine looking. He'd left his poor excuse for an overcoat behind, for fear the contrast might send the good doctor into shock. For once, Felix was clean, crisp, and looking like everything a private eye should.

Too bad he was walking into a dimly lit park on the whim of a disembodied voice on his phone. He snuck hand to the back of his waistband, fingers finding the walnut grip of his pistol.

Light pollution was his friend tonight, however. The park was no maze, and he navigated it's winding paths in relative brightness. He passed bench after bench, crossing nearly the entire park until he found the meeting point. Without much hesitation, he slid onto the bench, and began his vigil until his doctor’s appointment. To break the monotony before it even began, Felix pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it in one seemingly fluid motion. The small white stick hit his lips, and he willed himself to breath. The vitae within him came to life, and he felt the smoke pour down into his withered lungs. He savored the feeling, the self-delusion that he was still some kind of real animal, and not a caricature of superstition.

The smoke also worked to distract him from the stillness of the place. He knew if he let himself linger on the shadows and silence for too long, they would soon start to taunt him in raged voices and crude gestures. The last thing Felix wanted to be was rattled during his doctor's appointment.