A natural intensity of gaze. The eyes that weigh you up do so coldly, openly, and with genuine curiosity.

The sound of his voice stirs some vague primal discomfort.

This is not a man who is dying. Something, however, is very wrong with him.

... Because they should've spread out to cover off potential threats.

Some form of explosive device may have been useful.

Because no one ever sits near him on public transport. Nonce vibes.

Every grand finale needs a soundtrack.

GOOD START. NOW ACT LIKE HIM TOO.

Fair play, he thinks. If this is to be his final performance, at least it's a big stage.

Something is pressing down on you. Heavy earth.

None of this matters. Keep your focus on the big picture.

It does sound kind of... uncool, when he puts it like that.

A measure of last resort. Reports state it being extremely painful for the recipient.

You remember asking Doctor Kharlov to describe the sensation. He brought his lighter to a piece of paper and let it burn. 'That,' he said, 'But inside.'

You can. Your fingers sink into the receiver as if the plastic were suddenly the plump, warm flesh of her waist.

No. But you can definitely catch a whiff of the last guy's teeth.

It would be so very easy to believe her. As if for you and you alone, it's no act.

She casts it off, just like that. As if the phone was passed to a different person.

No, wait, come back!

This is the real deal. She fakes it with everyone else, but with you, she means it.

You need the cicada's scream, you crave it -- shrill and empty. It silences the nonsense of your dreams.

Let her beg for mercy. You want to hear it.

Bust this door in.

Kurt gets it as much as a dog gets the weather. Sometimes it's wet. Or warm. Sometimes both. All very baffling.

Crackling, soft warm smoke equal parts sweet and musky fills your mouth.

A perfectly even burn line recedes throughout the joint, a milimetre with every puff.

Your cares dissolve.

It does feel like something else is controlling your body.

You recall the prisoner's voice, crackling into your ear.

The image forces its way back to you -- Reno's unblinking, obsessive stare, while on the bed Ramses convulsed.

He includes himself like one coming to terms with the things done during a blackout, or a bout of amnesia.

Dancing on insanity, his understanding of reality and roleplay had merged entirely.

The negotiator said he had a 'request', and suggested tomorrow night.

Like the master sword-makers of Tsun's Arc, he is a relic of times long past, an initiate in some forgotten craft now performed in seconds by machines.

The editing job alone is probably a week's work.

There he is. He's back.

Nodding mechanically, eyes glazed over and gently smiling, it's hard to tell how much he's even understanding.

Not the slightest sign of surprise. Supreme, unfeigned spiritual indifference.

Only a monster would say 'no' to free, top-grade telecom nerdery full of hyper-specific details.

His brow furrows, as though struggling not to let the idea through.

Mass conditioning. It never fails.

A slow death by erosion.

You know the kind: vaguely colonial, full of misinformation and the promise of erotic adventures with cannibals in far off jungles.

The baseline rhythm of the electrical signals in his body has steadied, a regular pulse instead of that jittering telegraph blip.

Hints of a new life looming -- unless you occlude it.

You are not ready for this.

Run. Run and don't look back.

Put a stop to this.

There's definitely ants in there. Crawling colonies swarmed in the sticky-sweet syrup that's soaked into the pages... countless tiny horrible legs ready to tickle your skin...

A granopticon.

Checks