Rain pelts the hapless street below in a machine-gun staccato, so thick one can barely see through to its other side. Anyone sensible remains indoors but for the most crucial emergency; one figure stands defiant in the deluge, peering through the water-curtain to the vague outline ahead. Luckily there are no cars; the constant roar of the downpour drowns out all sound as the stranger lurches over the road and up the stairs to the townhouse. The overhang grants respite as frozen fingers fumble with a set of lockpicking tools. Hasty metal scraping, a clink on cement, a sharp curse. Try again: this time it takes and the figure pushes the door open a little too eagerly, wincing as it slams against the wall. No sound from inside, so it hurries in, kicking it shut before shaking out the wide-brimmed hat. A tall, gaunt man, brown-haired with the stubble of someone that hasn't slept properly for some time.

The hallway, already claustrophobically narrow, tightens further from neverending rows of bookshelves stocked with binders and folders and all manner of documents. The man's face falls, but he gets to work immediately, checking ream after ream for his objective. Not here. Not here. Not here not here not here notherenothereNOTHERE!! Careful inspection devolves into frantic clawing, papers spilling over the floor as he races to find it before—

Not the foyer, he realizes, Too easy. His eyes drift to the narrow staircase ahead. No doubt something that valuable would be kept under close guard... Dare he risk the second storey? If worst comes to worst he can try diving through a window—falls from that height were survivable—but this whole block is built on a raised foundation, dammit, and he hadn't even eyeballed how much—but he has to get that, or he's as good as dead anyway. Delving into his coat pocket he retrieves his trusty pistol and creeps up the stairs, freezing as the first step groans like a cemetery awakened. After a few breathless seconds he tries the next step, keeping his feet to the far side to lessen the strain. After what seems like half an hour he's made it to the top landing. Two doors open, two doors shut, and with the rain pelting off the roof there's too much noise to figure out if someone's sleeping.

He tries his luck at the leftmost forward whose doorframe is faintly illuminated. Jackpot. It's a miniature study, overstocked bookcases almost crowding out the tiny work desk more fitted to mice than human beings. Here he's forced to slow down, partly from the dim light and partly from being so cramped he can barely spread his elbows. It's the good stuff, alright, in content if not in classification. No wonder it's been so hard to keep up: the crafty devil's been thinking five or six steps ahead with just the barest of facts—give him time to do proper research and his plan becomes impregnable.

But whatever insight's gained in the general sense, there's still no sign of his prize, just reams of missions already accomplished ages ago. The search becomes as crazed as downstairs, books and binders flying off the shelves, scattering just as haphazardly. Soon he's barely even processing the words, digging for the sake of it than toward any tangible goal. He's practically torn up half the room when he's suddenly doused in a blinding light.

"Cyril."

He spins around. An elder, gaunt man in a dark blue peacoat and Greek fisherman's cap is staring at him, arm slowly falling from the light switch. The figure's face shows neither surprise nor anger; on the contrary, it's as if he's been expecting this intrusion. The other man starts trembling, cheeks flushing scarlet as though he's only a child caught red-handed in the midst of a prank. His jaw opens and shuts several times as he tries and fails to reply.

"Come," says the elder, turning back to the stairs, "I'll get you a drink."

Hesitating, he follows, feeling for the form of his gun within his coat. He enters a kitchen so cramped it might be a converted utility closet, the tiny round table and accompanying chairs barely leaving enough room for the cook to navigate. He sits in silence as his host prepares an exotic tea, joining him at the table. The weathered man stares at his guest, waiting for a reply that never comes—he doesn't know if it's nerves or just the absurdity of holding the steaming cup in his hand, as though this whole confrontation had been mutually arranged beforehand.

"So," sighs the host, "You're here to kill me."

"No I'm not," he says in that weak, hurried way that barely counts as a lie.

"You break into my house, pillage my archives, and your right hand keeps feeling for your pocket. I know you're armed, and I've never known you to threaten with an empty chamber." The man's cheeks flush again, and not merely from the heat of the brew. "Not that I can blame you, I s'pose," he continues, "Subtlety never was your strong suit."

"Look, I'm sorry," he concedes, shoulders dropping, "This all just spiralled out of hand. I mean—you know what I'm going through..."

"Yeah," he mutters.

Cyril withdraws the gun and places it on the table, tilted to the side to appear non-threatening. "I just—I dunno, I don't know what to do anymore, and it's driving me crazy—!"

"You feel lost," he nods, "Happens to the best of us."

"I just..." he gazes, pleadingly, one hand thudding across the table, "I just need someone to help..."

Hidden as they are in the cragged face, there's a grandfatherly sheen in the old man's eyes, that shoreline beacon to the foundering ship. It's as if an immense weight has just been lifted from his back, as though with a gentle hop he could spread his arms and fly away. Head bobbing absent-mindedly, his saviour leans in, brow knitted in sympathy. "You're not getting those negatives."

Cyril stiffens, hand balling into a fist as it slides back across the table. "Tom—"

"Cry all the crocodile tears you want, in fact cry yourself dry, if it's not too much trouble—"

"Tom, please—"

"—I've tried to be your friend, Cyril," he continues, utterly calm, utterly patient, "God knows I've taken the fall for you before—"

"Tom, this isn't fair—!"

"No, it isn't," he concurs, and the younger man settles somewhat. "One line. That's all I asked. One line. You promised, you swore, you assured me—then when the going got tough you trampled it like it was a lit fuse—you danced over that line, Cyril." Clasping his hands together he leans forward, up into the man's face. "And here you are, deed done, begging forgiveness."

"I didn't mean it!" he snaps, leaping from the table, "I make mistakes—you know me! God damn it, you're the one that's always helped me—"

"But this isn't about you and me," Tom shoots back, "That's the point!" Cyril pauses, startled; he's used to people screaming at him, after all he's done it enough himself—but Tom's is a focused anger, not loud, not boisterous, but sharp and clear and not to be dismissed. "I could live with being your punching bag—I was taking a blow for the team, I said. Except when I looked around, they were still getting bloodied and you weren't even swinging for them." Slowly, deliberately, Tom sets down his mug and rises to his feet, drawing level with the other man. "You were dangerous, Cyril, that's why we cut you out."

"Bull—"

"Ian, Rory, Kevin," he numbered off, eyes never leaving Cyril's face, "Katja, Melanie, Dieter, you never got a chance to apologize to them because they were already dead and buried by the time you left. The company was dead, Cyril, and we that remained spent those last few weeks doing damage control so at least the wreckage wouldn't catch fire."

"How dare you..." he growls, "After everything I did—after everything you took from me—"

Tom bursts into laughter, a mirthless, scornful cackle, backpedalling as if losing balance. "How dare I?" he parrots, "My office was practically dedicated to cleaning up your neverending stream of faux pas! But you know what? I stood up for you. I convinced them you were on the mend, that you were trying, that you'd see that operation through. I wanted you to succeed, goddammit, and you threw it all in my face." With a lurch, he's up nose to nose. "I. Owe. You. Nothing."

Cyril's heart races like he's run a marathon. Tom's breath rises steady, deep; gone is the old man, replaced by a silverback wolf sizing up its prey. They remain fixed, almost motionless, before the elder slowly pulls away, morphing back into the unassuming host, collecting the mugs and taking them to the sink.

"I want those negatives."

"You're not getting them."

Cyril retrieves the gun and cocks the hammer. "I want those negatives, Tom."

The man slowly pivots, completely unfazed. "You think I'd be stupid enough to keep them in my house, the first place you'd check?"

"You keep money in your mattress—"

"My money. I told you this isn't about me. They're our security against you pulling a stunt like that ever again."

A strange look washes over the man's face, a blend of rage, disbelief, and gnawing terror. His arms shake as his aim wavers. Tom slowly steps forward. "You've lost, Cyril," he says matter-of-factly. "Go home and get some sleep."

As he reaches for the gun, Cyril's finger twitches and they both recoil from the shot. It takes several seconds for Cyril to register what's happened—Tom on the floor, curled around his abdomen, a trickle of blood along the edge of his clothes. No, he thinks, no, no no this wasn't supposed to happen no god not like this no—He's moving before he's thinking, scrambling over Tom's semi-conscious body, pilfering the pockets—wallet, bank card, scrap of paper, anything that'd give him a lead—he sees the mugs on the counter, feels his blood freeze, looks down at his bare hands. His whole house, he realizes, Bare-fingered over his whole house..!

Real panic sets in. Cyril practically flies outside, dashing through the rain until he's put at least three blocks between him and the crime scene. Tom, you bastard... All he'd wanted was closure, now he's racing the clock. He has to find those negatives before any of the old guard learns what happened—and all he has are some keys, a notebook, and whatever restaurant phone numbers the daft codger might've buried in his wallet. Desperate as he is, he can't help but grin forlornly. Tom always did love a good cliffhanger...