This direct line of questioning is drawing far too much attention to you.

Placate her with a lie.

You often find inspiration in the allure of architecture. Use that.

Barely holding it together as she dramatises her words.

You got off extremely lucky this time, operant. You won't next time, if you make it that far.

Operant! Did you not learn from last time? Keep it on the down low.

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

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

Perhaps all your work as an operant has just been preparing you for becoming the greatest poet that ever lived.

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.

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

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.

Blood hangs in ghostly shapes amid the dark waters of a ravine. Curious trout follow the trail and discover a body -- gore streams from a barbaric crater, where there was once an eye.

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.

'Maybe I do', she thinks to herself.

Nothing fake about her reaction.

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.

All around you: tall buildings with multiple viewpoints, from roofs and windows. You feel eyes watching you from one of them -- you may never find out whose.

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

'I deserve a much worse fate', she thinks to herself.

Gulp. Dry mouth. A skeleton of fear.

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.

Deep down, she's wincing, fighting to deny the worst case scenario.

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.

A failed metaphor, in other words.

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

In a way, hitting a low like that is its own kind of achievement.

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.

There's more to it than that. Having a break wasn't her choice.

It's been much harder than she's letting on. That magazine was her life.

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.

Checks