The clinic's metal door is scabbed with rust and surrounded by graffiti. An official looking sign hangs to the right of it.

The clinic's metal door is scabbed with rust and surrounded by graffiti. An official looking sign hangs to the right of it.

Look at the sign.

OPEN NIGHTS. NO KNOCKING. NEXT ANIMAL WHO BLEEDS ON THIS DOOR GETS SEDATED THROUGH THE EYE.

Look at the graffiti.

Scrawled badly, in horrific fonts: 'fraud', 'butcher', 'Gonza owes me a tooth'; 'charged me for screaming'. A vulgar drawing of a doctor seemingly fornicating with a leg.

Study the door.

Warped frame, cheap steel, hinges rusted like old teeth. No reinforcement.

We could kick this in, but it'd make a lot of noise and a lot of mess.

What about the lock -- could it be picked?

Flimsy, much like the door. Would be easy -- if you had a lockpick.

Pick the lock.

Pick the lock.

The pins dance for you. Pressure just shy of arrogant, tension held like a cigarette kiss. Click.

No squeal. No protest. Just the quiet pop of metal giving in to a woman who's done this before.

You move with care. Muscle memory sharp. But your pick catches -- again, and again -- in the same rotten groove. The door remains shut.

Leave.

You turn back toward the noise of Party Alley.