It's abrupt. That's the only way to explain in a single word. Abrupt; mundane in a way. No spectacle, no announcement, just: gone. There's this thread in Waylon's mind. Held under tension since sometime around Phil's death. Every inconvenience plucked at it; felt like nails being driven further and further.

Now, that thread sings, threatening to snap.

He presses Gina's limp hand into his cheek. "You can't leave. Please. I can keep going; I can keep helping. I don't need a break, Gina. I'm fine.

"I'm fine, Gina.

"Please."

A part of him falls through his mind. Further. Gets trapped within or behind or someplace else. From that wherever, he watches his body convulse. Listens to his own squabbling. Pitiful, pointless wishes for the impossible. She's gone; he knows that. But, he can't stop himself from calling out.

"Don't go." He whispers, face nestled amongst grey clumps of hair. "Don't leave me alone."

Behind him, the room's door glides open. Heels clack, fabric swishes, and the door latches closed once again. Waylon doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. This was their plan, after all. Albert's.

They hover back there, silent. Standing back, watching, waiting — offering no prompt beyond their presence.

Coconut hits his nose: her conditioner. The smell drags him back through space, back to his own body. Back in control. Heart burning, each pump floods his veins with fire.

He squeezes his eyes shut and speaks, voice quiet and warbling with unsteady breath. "Why didn't you save her?"

"Lad, it just wasn't possible. Let me explain—"

His fingers tense against Gina's scalp. "No. What you put me through... you owe me. You've got the money. Plenty."

"I assure you, I requisitioned the best care that I could within my means. Treating Consumption isn't as simple—"

Waylon's chest bursts into flame. He screams amid tears and clumps of hair. "I gave away everything!" He whips about and flings his arm at their surroundings. "Everything! For this. A fancy room and a handful of nurses? What about a healer?"

Albert lets their eyebrows droop — pity. "Money isn't enough to buy a healer able to help her, Waylon. Those people are wealthier than you can imagine. To get their ear, you either need influence or potential: some way to give them what pure money can't buy. The PR boost from healing a sick child; a politician's favor. But, she's got nothing. She's just... Gina. An old woman, life spent. Inconsequential in their eyes. It's a shame."

Nothing? Inconsequential?

With that thought, Waylon remembers why he came; he remembers the weight dangling at his side; he remembers his revolver.

He brings it up. Not to aim, but to look. He holds it before himself — grip in one hand, barrel resting in the other — and he stares. Specular blobs dot its bullet chambers' curved, metal exterior. Burning reflections of fluorescents overhead.

Anger takes him.

"Shame?" He rips the chair aside and jabs the barrel underneath Albert's jaw. "A 'shame'? That's what you think her life is?"

Albert lets their hands float upwards in surrender, like two sarcastic balloons on strings. "Waylon: that's not my opinion. In fact, I think she's a wonderful woman. Before you arrived, I had the privilege to talk with her at length and—"

Waylon cocks the hammer and jabs metal deeper into flesh. "You know nothing about her."

Albert winces, but barely. "Alas, I may as well. So many experiences gone, just like that. Endless stories I'll never get to hear. That's what I meant by 'shame', Waylon. Reverence for her life. Not ridicule."

Waylon hisses through his teeth. "Shame I don't believe you."

Click.

No bang. His stomach drops. Again, he cocks the hammer and squeezes.

Click. Again. Click.

Again and again and again, every attempt more desperate. Six in all; one for each bullet. None fire.

Waylon rips the revolver away from Albert's neck and fumbles with its cylinder. His sweat acts like grease on the release latch. Finally, it gives and the cylinder breaks away, revealing six filled chambers.

Something's wrong. He thumbs the ejector rod overtop an upturned, trembling palm. Bullets tumble free and fall into his hand. Wet. Condensation clings to their brass casing; dry skin wicks some away.

"That— that doesn't make sense." Waylon sputters.

With a sigh, Albert strolls up to the room's table and its too-few chairs. "Not today, then."

Waylon casts his eyes about the room for something — anything — that'd explain. Until his gaze falls to Albert. Hand going limp and bullets slipping through his fingers, he lists forward. Metal tinkles over tile. "What did you do?" He says.

Albert slumps onto a chair. "Nothing, if you'd believe it."

It was them. I know. It had to—

The sight before Waylon cuts short his thoughts. This person: who are they?

Albert, of course. But, no. Their eyes search; their fingers pick at lips; no words leave their mouth. All impossible given the person that Waylon knows them to be. It's like they're oblivious to him standing there, revolver in hand.

A ploy; another infuriating game. He tightens his grip on the revolver and resumes his advance. Albert makes no reaction, lost in thought.

The hesitation is enough for a memory to click into place: a single line buried within the report on Thea that Waylon had commissioned.

Franklin Cunningham. Relationship: Friend. Power: Fine-grained humidity control.

His steps slow. No. It had to be a part of Albert's plan, too. This isn't a coincidence. Yet, even as he forces the thoughts through his mind, his gait falters to nothing. It has to be them. This is all their doing — their fault.

Albert's demeanor changes as quick as a light switch. Picking fingers fall, legs cross, back straightens. "Apologies, I forget myself. A lapse. Shall we sit? Chat and allow me to lay my cards—" Interrupting themself with a shake of their head, they jolt out of their seat and pat their suit pants flat. "No, no, what am I thinking? I should allow you a moment here with her." Walking to the door, they hesitate. They glance over their shoulder and dart their eyes between Waylon and his revolver. "Unless you're planning to beat me to death?"

Untrimmed, dirt stained nails dig into flesh. Waylon looks down. It's his free fist, clenching without a thought. Could I? Fights from movies play, each one leaving their protagonist bloody and broken. Albert's right: he can't stomach an act so visceral.

"Very well." Albert says. "Let an aid know when you're done and they'll take care of the rest. Then, we can have our chat."

They disappear through the doorway and it latches shut. Waylon is alone. His shoulders — drawn taut by anger and adrenaline — fall. He lists to the table, drops his revolver upon its top with a clatter, and collapses into a chair.

Gina isn't here. Only what used to be, slumped and rigid amid blankets and pillows. Her last expression haunts the room. No peace, or joy, or anything a last moment should be. Just relief and emptiness and a lolling mouth.

Waylon's gut churns at the sight of it; he jerks his chair to the side — away. Metal legs scrap against tile. Goosebumps. Folding over, he buries his head in his hands and tears at his scalp. Elastic snaps. Hair cascades, draping like a shaggy curtain around his face.

He freezes.

The sight of "it"?

Saliva turns warm and thick; surroundings lose focus; and he's cold. So cold. It feels like his spine's throttling his brain, choking off control of his limbs and garbling every sensation. He shakes. Uncontrollable and violent. "Why?" He whispers. "What did I do wrong? Why?"