An old tailor's shop.
A fitting room.
Grey corridors, as it was to be expected.
Wrong, he wasn't in London anymore.
Gray hallways.
A web of gray hallways intersecting at right angles.
Sliding doors materializing silently.
Winking panel boards.
People walking along in accordance to a well arranged choreography, capable and efficient people who nodded at him mechanically. Politely. They didn't pay attention to him. Apparently.
Familiar rustle of voices, footsteps, computers...
"Mr. Kuryakin? Mr. Waverly is waiting for you."
The pleasant brunette pointed at a door.
Alexander Waverly and a dark haired man stood next to a round table.