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...wasn't a very nice man, Boris, you muse, your fingers moving through the garbage, seeking something hard. Maybe that's why killing him didn't bother me all that much. He called them peasants, but his death wasn't any different just because he was a nobleman.

Your fingers finally closing around the watch chain, you pull the beloved memento out from underneath a split bag of trash and let out a sigh of relief. It's dirty but otherwise undamaged, the picture still intact and clean. You stand and turn around, ready to make your way to the safe house, only to be nearly blinded by a ray of sunshine that is just breaking over the horizon. Letting out a hiss, you flatten yourself against the wall, weighing your options.

A little further down is a steel door that probably leads to the back of a restaurant or store. You could try to get in but there's no telling what could be inside. Or, you could attempt to get back to the safe house, despite the rising sun.

Try to get back to the safe house

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