The doors closed behind him with a disinterested splinter. Mezzo stood watching the cloud cover gather over the previously pleasant skies. He nodded a farewell to Chelsea, who disappeared off into the city and was left with his back against the rich brown and green exterior of the tavern. Its once appealing facade was now riddled with chipboard windows and neglected paintwork. Droplets began gathering against the exposed wood, converting it to a dirty brown. A shame to leave it this way. Then the heavens opened, bringing down a sudden rain fall, cascading in sheets through the streets of Detroit.

He hadn't dressed for rain, a simple white shirt and leather jacket would offer little respite from the elements.

A final look up at the sign over the door, before stepping briskly and ruthlessly away from it forever. What was in a name, anyway. A name was expectation and pressure. It was idolization and condemnation. The man made the man, not the name. Or woman, he supposed. His thoughts then sharply returned to his mother, a sudden wave of guilt for discarding her memory from his mind followed. What made her strong was the very thing Jack now held distaste for. Expectation. She had taken many names, mothers, married and maiden. Tammy Brennan, DeLuca... Gato.

Throughout her life she discovered who she was supposed to be through those names. Why was it so hard for Jack? The name he was left with was given one night in the tavern. A connection with the singing voice of his mother. He knew it was for his own safety, but had she intended to leave him with this headache of identity? Was he expected to discover who he was himself?

There is was again. Expectation. 

His now saturated back began to feel the cold, though he did not break his pace and maintained a steady gait. The tap-tapping of his shoes on the sidewalk echoed down the hollow street. The occasional motorcar engine struggled past. Was there anything left in Detroit? He could go to West Montcalm, his grandfathers old headquarters. It was unlikely there would be any old associates of the old man there. Or Park Ave, and try to find answers on what happened to Kate Logan. Or...

The road opened up before him, a metaphorical convenience, he considered. Though regardless, he was still presented with the option of heading Downtown, or... somewhere else. The rain dripped from his nose, his unkempt hair plastered to his forehead. Frustration built in his mind. His carefully crafted logical way of thinking began to break down. The voice in his head cultivated into something loud and aggressive. He had a name. Why did he crave more? Did he need explanation or guidance? What if it brought no satisfaction? What if he walked that road for the rest of his life? He had a name, and that name was...

His mind stalled. He walked on.