Matthew rode down the almost empty street, shivering with the bitter cold of the dawn. This was two days after a mysterious encrypted and anonymous message manifested itself in his inbox. Decrypting it and perusing the contents was short work for him- but what struck him were the implications. Evidently his reputation preceded him, and an as of yet unknown criminal organisation was attempting to put him under their employ. He would have preferred to stay freelance, deciding himself on his tasks, and carrying them out at his leisure. But times were getting harder. Freelance jobs were scarce, and he could barely pay the bills, let alone keep his equipment running and his ride fuelled. 

As the wheels span at an ever increasing pace, leaves and scraps of paper were kicked up and billowed in the wind. Passing only a few huddled in corners or peering at him from behind blinds, he paid no heed to others. At last, rounding a sharp corner into an even tighter alley, he came across piles of rubbish, crates- and a solitary, almost out of place telephone booth. Though the surroundings were suspicious to say the least, his intuition told him that it was safe. Relatively. Dismounting from his bike with a quick glance to ensure that there was no one around, he calmly strode over to the phone. As soon as he entered the booth and closed the door behind him, the familiar shrill tone began to sound. Lifting the headpiece from the board, a surprisingly crisp and clear man's voice sounded out from the phone. 'Warehouse 67. Bring no one.' Then it was abruptly cut off. Filled with apprehension, Matt left the payphone, walked with a steady gait back to his bike, and mounted up. Now- to meet his imminent fate, whatever it may be.