At this moment the automatic doors to the service station slide open with the usual squeak and a gust of humid air. Through the doors the stifling breeze carries a voice, the harmonious, mid-pitched voice of a woman talking on her smartcom.
"Yes, we found him." A pause as she walks in, her tall, solid frame stands out amongst the low shelves full of stock. A well-tailored double-breasted trench coat covers her torso.
"He's in the car, we'll take him over soon." Found who? What odd timing, to overhear this conversation at the same time as the message from this stranger.
The woman, her piercing lime coloured eyes now scanning the shelves, is recognizable; she visits this store quite often actually. Her name is Ires and is the type of customer who always seems to have something to say, even about things as trivial as the weather (god forbid), or how busy the place has been.
That is to say, Ires Mahakali is a friendly person, and she is now approaching the service counter, eyes locked on Ọya, with a small selection of products in her arms.