The hour is late, as usual. The streets are cruel, but between party and party, it's hard to think about that, especially for a man such as László Tóth. Looking for a hit of the next drug in fashion and awaiting the next letter from his wife, however, has kept the architect sane. 1947 has been a weird year in every sense of the word.

In the middle of the cold, at an ungodly hour, he seeks solace in the night and steps out for a cigarette. A vice he indulges all too often in, though by far the least harmful one. Struggling to stand upright from all the substances in his system, in his haze he spots someone unfamiliar. A pretty face, not an unwelcome sight. Stood on a corner, the street lamps grant them a glow that's nearly angelic. Or perhaps his perception is distorted, he can't bring himself to care too much. A lady of the night, or gent, he presumes. From the distance he can't quite make out the details, but he's lonely enough to spend a few extra dollars on someone to bed for the night.

With nothing better to do, Gordon having left him a few hours ago but not yet wanting to go home, he approaches.

"How much for an hour?"