A tenebrous, tempestuous eve descends upon Santa Monica. A briny breeze wafts not the most salubrious scents, the acrid tang of exhaust and tobacco yielding to a miasma of sweat, liquor, and the unwashed. Vagrants huddle 'round makeshift braziers, their presence a grim reminder of the city's underbelly.

As the sky grows ever more somber, pregnant with the threat of rain, you hasten towards the nearest shelter, a nondescript building. With a resounding thud, the door slams shut behind you, the relentless downpour pounding upon the hapless souls left exposed.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips as you survey your surroundings. The surety agency's interior is a symphony of mundane sounds: the chatter of a radio peddling its wares, the tantalizing aroma of coffee, pizza, and donuts mingling with the pungent scent of copier ink. Behind a desk strewn with papers and a computer, an obese man with raven locks engages in an animated phone conversation, oblivious to your presence.