The renegade who had it made...
If someone were to walk down a certain alleyway in a certain part of Chicago that very few someones would bother walking down at this time of night, they might have seen a young man attempting to wipe grime off of his suit with all the irritation of a wet cat... Or a slightly sodden terrorist, which, although not a common metaphor, is definitely more appropriate.
Honestly, if he had known he was going to fall through a rift into a sewer of all things, he wouldn’t have worn $500 shoes and Armani.
As it stands, not everyone is lucky enough to come out of the rift in the Conrad into warm environments with debriefings and medical examinations and everything resembling safety and comfort in an extremely confusing time. The fact that this particular young man was one of those unlucky few is probably just karma out to get him.
That, of course, would imply that Julian Sark actually believes in karma, which he doesn’t.
This is an area for the poor and destitute and a young man in an expensive (albeit slightly slime-covered) suit waltzing around with no purpose other than some sad attempt at trying to figure out what the hell’s going on and how the hell he can get out of it as quickly as possible sticks out like a sore thumb. Obviously, he’s going to be a target for whatever lurks in the shadows.
If there are demons out there, you have a potential new ally to pounce upon (and the narration implies that in a literal sense). Provided, of course, that something else doesn’t find him first.