As much as he enjoys sleep, Crowley also really likes cities on the cusp between very late night and very early morning. The last of the drunks and partying twenty-somethings have trickled back into their homes, and save a few taxis making their way about on their own business, streaks of sodium-yellow headlights in the blue-brown night, the streets are nearly empty. The only people awake are people who have business being awake. It's a nice time to be up.

And so Crowley is, not really going anywhere, just walking, fag smouldering between his fingers. If pressed he might admit that he's doing some thinking, but would forbear to enumerate any further.

Passing by the huge stone edifice of the Natural History Museum, his eye is caught by someone who is doing an excellent job of looking like he's stepped right out of a self-consciously gritty comic book, loitering by the statue of Teddy Roosevelt in a leather trenchcoat, platinum blond hair slicked back, face faintly illuminated by the glowing cherry of a cigarette. Whoever he is, he's broadcasting as if in flashing neon letters, UP TO NO GOOD. And, well, Crowley can hardly resist that, can he?

As silently as he can, he snakes up behind the man, setting a shoulder against the plinth. 'Pondering a late night visit to the museum, are we?'