Time isn't kind. Waylon doesn't know how long it's been since Ivan called. Two rounds on the pipes and his head is spinning; his chest hurts and his eyelids flutter. He heaves in breath after breath, in between pangs of nausea that flip his stomach end over end.

It's freezing. The refrigeration unit hums louder each minute, sapping away heat to replace the cold escaping through the still open door. Its chill bites to the bone and forces his blood to churn — slow and thick. He drops his head onto an impromptu pillow of crossed-arms, which — in turn — rest on one facet of the machine. It's been at least five minutes.

Directly behind him near the room's entrance, Thea squeaks. "Oh! T-They just passed by..."

Waylon forces words past the nausea. "You smell them?"

She sniff a few times. "Yes. That intern's scent is fading, but Ivan's is still strong. D-Do you think he lost her? Is he coming back here?" She says.

Shifting just enough for an eye to slip past his own keeled over frame, he stare at her. "It's your job to know."

She picks her cane up off the floor and shrinks into herself. "Right, sorry. Sorry." Her head jerks toward the entrance as if her nose was caught by a fisher's hook. "Oh. Never mind, he's chasing her again." She says.

Of course, why wouldn't he. Waylon sucks in another deep breath. One more round, then.