There is nothing more to see here.

There is nothing more to see here.

The groundskeeper will find the body. A gloved hand will erase any record of his report to the authorities.

Ignatz' body has not moved. Blood runs in small rivulets between your feet.

Why did I stop?

You are picking up on something. An excess stillness.

A scent below the perceptual threshold, something the animal that is your body can smell even if you cannot.

In the darkness of the shack, something creaks faintly -- sinew.

What am I picking up on?

Bad death.

A creaking sound...

Rope.

What's that smell?

Not rot, not body odour, not excrement, and yet... all of those as one.

Something like you, but not like you. Something that has undergone a transformation.

Take a deeper breath.

Your lungs try to panic, you control them.

Fish leaping out of a tank in terror as the powdered remains of their fellows are shaken inside.

One sniff was enough.

You know already.

What's in there? (Proceed.)

A body.

Whose body?

A lonesome utility shack high above the city, its door broken on its hinge. A white cat tracks bloody prints in the dirt...

Ignatz.

Sadness overwhelming.

You cannot say.

It's Ignatz. The Weeping Eye would not let him live.

Spare yourself the visual.

What's the problem, can't take a little 'bad death'? Look inside.

What left the pawprints?

You spot a familiar, giant white cat lounging on the grass.

Look inside.

You step closer to the six-inch opening between door and frame, blocking the light as you do.

Your gaze sinks into the blackness, made all the more inscrutable by the light outside. Slowly, contours begin to emerge.

What little light enters the shack glints off moist surfaces never before exposed to the air.

Small creaks as he sways.

Look away, steady yourself.

Your attempts to breathe turn into meditation on the mangled body, and a sickly wave rises in you.

Sensation drains from you, replaced by an aching lightness. Like the moment before a drop.

The Manus Fati with its finger on pause, just for you.

Why are you doing this to yourself? You know who's in there.

I have to be sure. (Examine the shape more closely.)

Gashed skin and stretches of raw muscle. Details emerge slowly as your mind unscrambles the image.

Blood drips from his mouth to his eye.

Patches of orange fabric, a crumpled fedora in the far corner.

Ignatz...

The Weeping Eye have tied up a loose end.

You knew he was coming here. Could've had that one last drink.

Wait, the dying man...

He seemed so calm.

The deconstruction of Ignatz was a pleasure for him.

I'm a human curse -- here's another one I let down.

In more primitive times you would be warded off with spell and ritual.

Your shadow recedes from his ruined form as you step back from the doorway.

Ignatz masterminded his own demise.

The perfect cover up. He is long gone -- and secrets gone with him.

He always was amateur hour.

Should've spied harder.

Safe travels, Ignatz.

Might've been reasonable to have that drink to the craft.

Should've had that drink to the cat.

Could've had that drink with him...

Poor guy.

Your subconscious mind knows him a few seconds before your conscious one does.

Ignatz.

Poor guy...

The coat's distinctive colour flashes a face within your mind.

You recognise him.

I'm out. [Leave.]

You turn away from the shack. Rope creaks within, louder.

Examine the shape more closely.

At least it's not me.

It could be. Very few people get to know how they'll die. It could be that every second you live brings you closer to this.

It's hard to make out. At first, because of the dimness, and later, as your eyes adjust, because of the...

... Person?

Reduced to something else.

Viscera.

The human form, reshaped.

I don't want to be here, actually. [Leave.]

As you step away from the dark aperture, an unexplained chill runs up your spine.

A few steps before you reach the threshold, you notice red pawprints on the matted grass.

Blood. Fresh. Stop.

Your foot hovers above the ground.