Loki would prefer to worry about the scuffed wooden box in his arms. Worry that the oldest customer of Tindalos Couriers ("From all corners of the world to yours") would be angered that the ornately carved lid held deep scratches or the hinges and hasp were rusted solid and bleeding into the lid or the deepening dent of the heavy lock striking against the faded and warped wood.
All of that barely registered as Loki thought about the notice that lay on the deeply scratched counter of his cramped apartment. Winter was coming fast and Loki didn't want to try and survive until he could afford to turn on the lights again. If he could make this delivery, the commission would last long enough for business to pick up at his primary job.
Before Loki could get too lost in his thoughts, the subway stopped at his stop. Loki quickly got out and climbed the stairs to the street above. A glance at his phone told Loki that time was slipping away quickly and Loki wanted to change before making his delivery so that he would stick out less in the higher class neighborhood he would have to go to.
The evening chill easily penetrated his too-thin jacket as Loki passed the run-down and abandoned shops that lined the way to the run-down apartment building that Loki called home. Sometimes Loki would wonder how he had fallen so far but most of the time he loved the freedom and anonymity that New York afforded him.