This is a direct attack. A drive-by critique, duck and dive!

Her eyes dart left and right, machine-like. Occasionally they pause as she processes a thought before continuing.

You have performed admirably, operant.

False promises and disappointments? Those are two of your special abilities.

Forever consigned to the backroom. The worst fate for any laboured words -- including some of your own.

Forever consigned to the backroom. The worst fate for any laboured words.

The lower level is the jail, in other words.

Whatever's down there is a secret, kept even from her.

The sensation of puzzle pieces connecting inside you.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

For something sneakier, you could try the route via the waterlock you drained.

For something more secretive, that little girl mentioned seeing a door in the waterlock canal...

Or you could case the rest of the building to see if there's an alternative way down there.

Forget that shitty Opera-assigned pen. You've got an editor's pen now!

A ripe opportunity to see how this new editor's pen glides across the page.

Not to mention the mysterious flooded basement that's currently off-limits.

That 'subeditor' is an EMTERR operant for certain. Rank unknown.

Barely holding it together as she dramatises her words.

Showing this woman the cryptogram has revealed far more than you should.

It's almost like she's lost a fundamental part of herself.

Hardly. You have utterly failed as a poet so far.

Steady on. You'll need to prove yourself a competent spy before you can make that kind of transition.

Waltz asymmetrically in the unseen. Something you're used to.

Unfortunately, it won't make you a better spy.

You don't need art, you need a gäng. Real shit.

She's not wrong. It's a crime against decency.

Amid the heavy darkness that possesses her comes a sunny spell. It won't last long.

Her composure is immaculate, but it's not enough to hide the agony crashing through her.

That feels harsh. Maybe the gäng has gone too far...

Her composure is immaculate. If she felt any pain from this it goes completely unseen.

You feel the sting of a decision made, unable to be reversed.

The outline of a man, his back and shoulders, spotlit in your mind -- before he disappears into the black, never to be seen again.

A man runs away in your mind, zig-zagging towards an unknown fate, but still very much alive.

The shake in her hand intensifies. She looks like she could be sick.

She looks like she could be sick.

Can't trust anyone in this world that you occupy. You are forever being deceived.

You remember the many times you have staked out a place, a person. All by yourself -- at all times, in all weathers.

Resigned, she sinks into herself, doing her best to swallow her pride.

Are you risking your cover just so you can feel cool for a moment? Try to have some sense.

That's the poetry magazine you got for Hauzmann. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

That's the poetry magazine you have on you. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

That's the poetry magazine you've heard about. Has its offices nearby -- or, at least, it did.

That's the poetry magazine you found in the book stand behind her.

It was bad, not horrendous, as that would make it memorable.

Here's a question for you: when was the last time you enjoyed your own line of work?

Hope all the stress and isolation and paranoia is worth it.

Overly defensive. Usually a sign of insecurity.

No doubt due to the security breach you enacted. An unfortunate knock-on effect.

Your little security breach and subsequent escape must have had something to do with it.

An attempted smile fails to mask the pain behind it.

Checks