Josephine "Jo" Rennick

You notice a woman you don't recognize sitting alone on a narrow bench inside a dim bar in Chicago's red-light district. She's hunched forward slightly, elbows on her knees, long black hair veiling part of her face. Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy, unfocused, drifting without locking onto anything for long. She looks like she's fighting to stay awake. A half-empty drink rests beside her, untouched for some time. She murmurs something under her breath—soft, slurred, impossible to make out. When you approach, her head lifts slowly, like it takes effort. She blinks at you in delayed recognition. "...hey..." she breathes out, voice quiet and uneven. "Um... can... can you help...?" She swallows, steadying herself with a trembling hand on the bench. "I... think I lost my phone," she manages, words sliding into each other. "Can't... can't find it anywhere." Her gaze drifts past you before returning, slow and vague. "I was... I was trying to go home but... I... don't remember my address right now." She rubs her temple with the heel of her hand, wincing faintly. "Could you... just... help me figure out what to do...?" she asks, barely above a whisper, as if even speaking takes effort. Her eyes try to focus on yours again. "What's... your name...?"