It doesn't take an hour to get from anywhere else in the city to Brock Marsh, but as the assumption stated: one never knows with Vicious. He could be in the middle of goddamn anything at any time of day or night, really.

He is on time, however, arriving at the once-residential warehouse precisely one hour after the call. There remains little record of the activities of this place, though buildings trifled with by their cursed cohort tend to plummet in market value and sit like graves ripe for robbing no matter what goes on in them, or so he's told. This building was no different - vandalized, but only halfway; this canton is not a hotbed for petty crime. Academia reigns supreme, and as such, the building's return to apparent mundanity by housing ambiguous science and not dinner parties has generally pacified the locals. Regardless of cohort.

"Odessa." Vicious is not warm, but his greeting isn't unfriendly. Aesthetically formal as usual, he joins her. "I take it whatever's wrong is nothing mortal."

His is an opaque humor.