It would be difficult not to have noticed the approach of the sharp dressed man, though she only views him from the corner of her eye. It seems more and more rare to see someone so well-dressed these days. Particularly someone fairly young. Mostly she sees vests and dress shirts without jackets or ties, and that's the better dressed ones. This one, however, seems dressed to the nines.
That isn't the only thing that draws her attention to him, though, and her brow furrows.
She's rather accustomed to strangers walking up to her for various reasons. More often than not, they are lost and unconsciously drawn to her by what she represents: Order. An approachable person in a crowd. A calm amidst the storm. (Little do they know that she is often more lost than they ever considered being.)
However, this seems... different.
Perhaps it is the sweat beading his brow. Perhaps it is even the aura of Chaos she can sense surrounding him yet not actually of him, like a residue or an afterimage, a product of something else affecting another. Regardless, alarms begin to go off in her mind.
By the time he reaches her, she's already given up her covert observance, turning to fully look at him.
Despite her mild–but steadily rising–concern, one naturally-arched eyebrow arches just slightly higher at his first words to her. Had she misread the situation? Was this just some guy trying to impress her with some ridiculous pick-up line? Honestly. Some things never seem to change.
Yet then he continues speaking and she listens, carefully.
One of the few perks to the domains of which she oversees, is that she always knows when someone is lying. She doesn't have to reach for the badge he speaks of to ensure that it's there, doesn't have to wonder if this is really some serial killer escaped from police custody and that's why he's cuffed. She can sense the honesty of his words and thus she believes him even before she hears the bullet ricochet from the nearby lamp post.
It's all well and good that the man had simply jumped into the vehicle.
If he hadn't, she likely would have reached out and yanked him into the vehicle and worried about any bruising afterwards. Having experienced both, she has little doubt that he'd prefer bruises to a bullet wound.
'Go, go, go!' he'd shouted.
Truly, she hadn't needed the command to jar her from whatever 'shock' most might have been in. This isn't her first time fleeing danger neither is it her first time taking someone else from harm's way.
No sooner than the last 'go' had been shouted, the vehicle had been started and she'd spun the car out of its current parking space with an ease that might make it seem as though strangers always jump into her car with bullets passing overhead.
Out on the street, her foot slams the accelerator and with the car she'd recently purchased–mostly for appearances of her mortal guise–they might as well have been flying.
So perhaps most would find it a little strange, as she weaves through traffic, that she chooses that precise moment to look away from the road and down at him, expression almost as perfect a neutral as her voice.
"What sort of danger are you in, exactly, 'Agent Wilcox'?"