The chilly New York wind fluttered down the alleys, popping out in spurts to blow loose trash and snow out into the street and freezing passersby at the same time. The cold sky was heavy with clouds, promising more snow before nightfall. Winter in New York City only served to make people even less concerned with their surroundings than normal. So much so, that no one noticed the tall, bald man sitting on the alley steps of Michael's Rare Books. No one paid any attention to the massive frame uncomfortably folded in between the railings of the three steps that sat just behind the corner of the building, parallel to the street and oblivious passers. He sat, cigarette firmly held in his mouth, without moving. No one noticed how long he had been there. No one noticed him at all. He took the last drag of his cigarette, stamped it beneath his boot, and lit another. A woman walking by with her poodle only noticed the pungent smell, but thought no more of it. A young girl jogging by only noticed the dog. But the man in the worn leather jacket made a beeline for the other. Then came the gunshot. Suddenly, everyone noticed. Everyone now saw the tall, bald man collapse to the ground in the middle of the alley, several steps closer to the street than his previous position. Everyone noticed the pack of scattered cigarettes framing his arm like wings. Everyone noticed the hole in his forehead spilling blood over his lifeless eyes.