If asked, Arthur probably wouldn't have been able to describe his experience in the City, but it was a dream, and sometimes dreams defied description and were simply experience. He was not as consumed with concern if he died as many others, but since the risk of going deeper into a darker dream or even worse into and endless, soul-sucking limbo was far more likely than simply waking up into whatever reality was, he remained where he was. He had preformed one or two services for people in the City; showing them the potential of a constructed dream filled with lost loved ones or lovers out of their reach, and he had enough to live in a sort of middle-class comfort that itched like cheap wool.
Most of his shored up savings had gone into ammunition in the last few days, however. It made him cross and more liable to shoot to kill, particularly if an animal was a predator that thought Armani looked tasty. He was tired, however, and his apartment was several blocks off. So he stopped with his back to the Box wall and tapped a knock onto the door, almost to see what happened more than anything else. He had a gun in his hand, but that was more of a precaution than anything.