The building Marcus has directed John to is a crappy hotel that offers hourly rates and smells of cleaning solution and artificial lavender, strong and acrid enough to burn the inside of the nostrils. From the other side of the door comes the blare of music turned up too loud.

Marcus barely hears what John's saying over the noise, which is absolutely intentional. He's sprawled on the distinctly uncomfortable bed with his sketchbook in his lap and his cassette player right next to him. He doesn't turn it down, just roars cheerfully back, "It's open, you crude fucker, when did you get manners?" without looking up from the pencil sketch he's working on.