Something about the woman in the photo doesn't match the person standing in front of her now.

Operant CASCADE's penultimate expense tally included a handwritten note. 'Asset VIRTUE -- debt to the Opera: value, 1 schnapps, redeemable at any time.'

He was a drunk. A cheerful one. Probably how he got himself killed.

Couldn't have had nothing to do with you.

Walls covered in stains and memorabilia. Scuffed wooden floorboards smelling of spilled drinks.

You don't snitch -- not even on a snitch. She's taking a risk here.

Secrets and lies. Betrayal.

He doesn't seem the murdering type. But you can never rule anything out.

Beneath all the charm could lurk a stone-cold killer. Approach with caution.

Taking in Vespar's face, then yours -- younger, not yet burdened by five years of guilt.

The streets breed a bone-deep distrust of people who ask too many questions. Each secret you withhold lessens her suspicions.

It definitely had something to do with you.

He was a friendly face she barely remembers.

Behold, an orgy of elderly audiophiles. A show not to be missed, standing room only!

It's as if you just told her a secret, the same secret she has kept for many of her patrons.

Is there any part of you left that's still of Mircea?

NOT PARTY ALLEY. THE PARTY'S ALLEY.

The Palace of Culture in Novessa is grand, imposing, and in a constant state of renovation and expansion. You've never seen it without at least one wing closed for construction.

Inside a dark desk drawer, contracts and architectural drawings for a sixteen-story luxury apartment building and retail complex await the day the Palace's ceiling finally caves in.

THE CITY-STATE'S INDIVIDUALIST STREAK HAS LEFT IT WEAK AND EXPOSED.

She suspects the answer is 'now'.

She's just happy you took the hint -- she truly doesn't want to dwell on this.

Unable to disappear into her own coat, she attempted to recede into the painted backdrop.

Slouched in the booth, affect too stiff to be believable.

And your work made her lie to him, betray his trust. He could sense the distance growing between them, but could not bridge the gap.

Back to the nearest wall.

The memory of the endless ring when you called to tell him the boat was going to leave without him still itches at you.

An attempt to spare your feelings.

The thought should probably make you sadder than it does. But there's a hollow where your memory of him sits.

You really were scrubbing the hell out of those tables. Probably scared a few people off.

You hold your cool as the glasses rattle, attracting the attention of a few worried onlookers.

Shake. Stir. Pour.

Voice carefully neutral.

She won't say what she really thinks of him. Not yet.

A vision of changing jobs, relocating, but it takes a lot, leaving a whole life behind.

An uncomfortable reminder of his assumed familiarity with you.

She'd almost prefer if he just tried to assault her. She's used to that.

Without the long lens of the camera between you, she suddenly seems horribly normal.

No, a true nobody. Dragged unwillingly into another world.

Drunks in a bar celebrate their team's victory. Across the street, a crowd in opposing colours wait, broken bottles in hand. Among them, a young woman, gritting her teeth harder with every cheer.

That's not what the ring on his finger told you.

Through the cracks in her indifference, horror starts to leak out.

Running through euphemisms in her head.

An offering will be made to Rotanev the next time she can get out to the Pitol Tract.

'Angel, keep him away, keep him away from me for good...'

The line between incredible operant and social cripple is a thin one.

BALLERS AND SHOT CALLERS.

He will starve to death or get crushed by the building if he does not tear his jacket.

IF THE 'SCENE' IS FIELD LABOUR, AS IT SHOULD BE, THEN YES.

Yes! Yesss!

Checks