There she screams, the proud witch. I can see her through the newborn darkness as the savaged lamp-wires above me bleed their white-hot sparks. Do you see her, reader? Frozen like a rabbit on the floor, where she fell in her terror. I see her. She knows it. Shall I let her see me, through the dark I made? There, witch. Have a glimpse of my arm, and the javelin in it, with the entrails of the ceiling light still knotted ’round. Will you realize my weapon was, moments ago, a chair leg? Or will you think I sprout blades when I will them, or that I keep them hidden in my flesh and draw them from under old scars when the hunt is ripe? Oh, you fumble with your own chair now, as the spark-shower wanes and the blackness that surrounds us both becomes perfect. Do you want a weapon? Do you fear I might pierce that glass and reach your side of our divided cage? Useless. These prison chairs are welded metal; you need to know just where the weak points are, and how to twist, to snap a sharp leg free. The darkness is complete now, the spark shower gone, but I still hear you panting on the far side of the glass. I know you’re listening, but I let you hear nothing. Ask yourself, as your breath speeds, which one of us is hunter in the dark, and which is prey? One tardy spark lets me see you again. There. Those are eyes that realize this is my domain. If you only knew how much. I know this compound, Thisbe. I studied every wall and wire. This is the facility where they would have held me, if I’d been captured early with my work undone, stray Mardis still at large. I had to be ready to escape. And the interrogator’s side of these rooms is so much more vulnerable. Here! Let this crunch and echo thrill you, one stab in the wall two hand spans left of the window to take out the junction box, then I count one, two, three, four, five hands down and stab again—crunch—echo. Three more stabs, Thisbe, is all I’ll need to rip the belly from this wall and be in there with you. Your portfolio? How dare you think yourself an artist? How dare you place your idle hobby on a nobler level than works of heroes? Loyal Prospero, brave Sniper, and Mycroft Canner! You dare compare yourself to Mycroft Canner? Stab—crunch—echo. Do you smell me now, through the wall’s wounds? I smell you. I don’t smell urine yet, or vomit, but I smell your fear sweat, Thisbe, reeking sour salt, and I smell you. How well I know your smell, that was so often near the Major and his men, near Bridger. Bridger.

Bridger’s gone.