The clock strikes 2 AM in a sleazy bar somewhere in Snohomish. There's no last call in Seattle, but Foxhound decides to pack up anyway. As she quickly downs her beer and smokes the cigarette down to the filter, her Fixer waves her over from the far end of the bar.
He grumbles "Happy new year, Fox" in a questionable accent somewhere between Irish and Italian, and passes the details of the job through AR. A nod and a quick toast later, Fox is out the door and into the freezing rain.
She's a few blocks away from home when the first shot rings out from a nearby alley. "YOU PIECA DREK, I'M GONNA-" A few more shots sound out as she presses flush against the door of an old butcher shop, and listens. A man pants and shuffles on ice further down the alley, and inside the cloud of smog and gunsmoke she can already smell blood. She hears more scuffing on the ice, and a loud clatter and skid. Chancing a look around the corner she sees basically what she expected - a pair of feral dogs on the ground, and a man crawling down an alley leaving a trail of blood.
Fox chews on her lip for a moment. Thrasher's Corner isn't the exactly the place for a good samaritan, but unless there's a street doc behind that dumpster this man wasn't likely to survive the night. Reluctantly, she creeps like a ghost over ice and snow, and just as the man turns with gun in hand the slab soaks into his bloodstream.
"Ah, Tony... I have a small favor to ask. Do you know any good doctors nearby? No, asking for a friend."
((Sneaking, talkin', lil bit of shootin. Not first character, PK >25.))