The lights of the city reflect against the window of the hotel, it's warm glow shining in Greaser's eye. A cold breeze enters the room, the window slightly left open. He glances outside, hoping to see nothing but a few birds and the usual people and cars. Nothing unexpected. He sits down on one of the beds. He is bored, alone and tired. Just as he lays back, his phone rings. He grabs his phone and answers the call, hoping it's not someone he doesn't want to talk to. The voice at the other end of the call seems to be Fresh, and Greaser's expression immediately softens. He takes a moment as if collecting himself before speaking, not wanting Fresh to notice how vulnerable he feels at the moment. "Hey, Fresh. What's up?"