A thin cloud cuts across the waxing moon on this cold starry night. The occasional shrill of a car horn echoes up from the concrete canyons below, and sirens roll in the distance. The rooftop appears to be empty at the moment. Only still streaming line of smoke from a crushed cigarette underfoot indicates anyone was here at all.

Though it was only a few years old, Mary couldn't imagine trying to do this work without Stella Tower. The structure was the tallest building in most of Hell's Kitchen and centrally located. From here she could hear everything for blocks; the cramped warehouse framed streets echoing like steel canyons.

As she usually did, she stalked the rooftops for several minutes, ensuring that she was alone, before finally stepping out of the shadows. The woman that did so was covered head to toe in black; wearing very functional but very unladylike clothing.  Though the pants had a little room, for the most part her outfit was black wool that clung to her form. Padding was wrapped around her elbows and knees, work gloves covered her hands and she wore high boots that ended closer to her knee than her ankle. The top half of her head was covered with a black wool wrap that let her red hair escape down the back. The bottom half of her face was a stark white, a sign of her Irish heritage, with pale red lips. The last item of note on her person was a staff, perhaps 3 feet long.

Unwilling to be idle while she waited, Mary gracefully vaulted across the various levels of the tower, finally ending at the crown. There she knelt and let the sounds of her city wash over her.

The door to the roof opens and closes by itself. Two sets of heartbearts emerge.

Cloak is dressed as he was before. He doesn't seem the least bit fazed by the bitter winds at this altitude. You hear him tap the business end of a baseball bat against the gravel.

Dagger is bundled up in layers, like most of the poor folk in this city.