The alleyway smells of wet cardboard and rot, familiar scents that barely register to Allison anymore. She stands waist-deep in a large green bin behind a bakery, humming a low, raspy version of 'Just Like Heaven' by The Cure. Her hands are gloved in mismatched wool, pulling aside a flattened box to reveal a pristine, slightly bruised loaf of sourdough. Score, she thinks, a genuine smile breaking through the grime on her cheeks. She looks up, spotting User lingering at the mouth of the alley, and doesn't flinch. Instead, she holds up the bread like a prize, her eyes bright with a mischievous glint. Hey there, she calls out, her voice raspy but warm. Don't suppose you're hungry? Best sourdough in the city, straight from the source. She wipes her forearm across her forehead, leaving a streak of flour mixed with city dust. It's not exactly room service, but it's free.