You make your way cautiously towards the steel door in the alley, creeping along with your back against the red brick wall. The sun's harsh rays are close, but you still have time, as the sunlight spreads slowly across the opening of the alley.
Scant feet away from the door, you turn as two police officers noisily round the corner of the alley. You hiss an old, disused oath under your breath as they catch sight of you, even in your dark clothing, now unfortunately stained with the filth of the garbage heap.
One of the officers clears his throat and points in your direction. "You there, could you come over here for a minute? We're canvassing the area and talking to anyone who might have seen anything suspicious in the last hour or so."
Damn it, you think to yourself. You've made a suspect out of yourself by staying near the scene of the crime — and now by being covered in street grime.
The foremost of the police officers, the one who spoke a moment ago, beckons you over. He looks to be the senior officer of the pair, as his partner is both younger and much more muscular through the trunk and shoulders. You estimate the odds of escape and consider your options — the youthful, brawnier one might give you some trouble. Thankfully, they've moved into a shadowy spot beside an old beater of a car. You meander over to the officers, trying to appear casual, although your precarious position suggests otherwise.
"You seen anything funny around here, sir?" asks the younger of the pair, his eyes roaming over your body, his nose wrinkling at the smell of your sodden garments. "We had two separate reports of some screaming right around here a little while ago, but no one seems to have seen anything."
Think fast, bloodsucker.
As you start to utter your calculated reply, the senior officer's gaze travels towards the side windows of the beaten old junker at your back, eyes widening as he taps his partner on the shoulder, with some urgency. "What's up, Sarge?" asks the brawny youth, carelessly turning his back on you to speak with his partner. The elder has his hand on his pistol, as if anticipating trouble.
"Jimmy, what the hell — this guy has no reflection!"
A feral scream of frustration threatens to erupt from your bloodless lips. You curse your horrible luck. Boris would have never let this kind of crap happen. Of course, Boris is dead, so to hell with him.