One

"Hey?"

He finishes the sentence he is writing and looks up at her, waiting for her to continue. "What's your favourite book?" she asks. He pauses, unsure of where she is going with the question.

"Oliver Twist," he replies finally. It's the first thing he has said in hours of silence.

"Oh!" she nods. "Oh. I've never read it. Is it good?" Then she laughs lightly, bobbing her head, because she knows his answer before he gives it. "Well…"

"Well…"

"Of course you think it's good, yeah. I'm a doorknob."

A corner of his mouth turns up; a rare half-smile. He resumes his writing.

It's a penthouse office suite at 10:30 pm. The lights are still on in the other buildings. Rebecca is staring out one of the many large windows behind his desk; she's teetering on the edge of boredom. The scene reminds her of the prime time soap operas her mother used to watch in the 80's; to amuse herself she imagines she can hear the sleazy wailings of an alto saxophone. She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. He fits in perfectly. The suit may be new, but he still slicks back his hair. She turns to him. "Do you have a copy?" He looks up at her again.

"Yes."

"Like, here?"

He nods.

She puts her hands into her back pockets, shifts from one leg to the other. "Can I borrow it?"

"Sure," he says. He puts his pen down, stands up, and walks over to the bookcase. She could have gone to retrieve it herself, but she wanted to ask first. She's still fascinated by the idea that he has a bookcase in his office. It's next to the oak wall unit. She hasn't figured out what's in there.

He pulls the book off the shelf and hands it to her. He's still wearing his gloves. She takes it from him. "Thanks," she says. She turns away and opens the book in the middle, flipping the pages inattentively. It's a very long book. She glances up to see he's back at his desk. "Aren't you tired?" she asks.

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

The book in her hand, she starts strolling around the room. He looks up over the edge of his sunglasses and watches her. "Are you nervous?" She stops where she's standing, holding the book with one hand and knocking on the cover with the other.

"It's a big book," she says finally, and with a sheepish grin.

"Does that trouble you?"

"No, no… well, medical books are longer, like, come on!" she babbles. "No, it's just… it's Dickens. I've never read anything by Dickens before."

"You'll enjoy him."

She holds the book up.

"How many times have you read this?"

"A dozen times or so."

She nods and looks down at the worn leather cover. The volume has definitely been thumbed through many times. He notices she seems daunted by the task at hand. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

Their eyes meet.

"Aren't you busy?"

"Yes, but I'm at liberty to make my own rules."

Rebecca feels rooted to her place.

"Okay," she says.

He stands up and takes off the jacket of his suit. He hangs it on the back of the large executive chair at his desk. Then he walks over to her and takes the book. He makes his way to the right-hand chaise and reclines on it, stretching his legs. Rebecca doesn't know what she should do. He looks up at her. He's taking off his gloves. That fact alone compels her to move towards him. She lowers herself onto the chaise and lounges next to him. He picks up the book and opens it to the first page. His hands are perfect. He begins to read out loud.

"'Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was born, and of the circumstances attending his birth.' Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter."

"Are you wearing cologne?" she asks him.

"A little, yes."

She smiles.

"I like it. What is it?"

"Xeryus Rouge."

"Oh," she says. He can tell she's never heard of it before.

"May I continue, Miss Chambers?"

She rolls her eyes.

"It's Rebecca, Captain."

"It's Albert, Rebecca."

She blushes.

"For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child could survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country."

"Albert?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you like this book so much?"

He pauses, takes a breath.

"It resonates," he answers.

Two

No one is saying anything.

Claire is sitting on a stool, biting her nails.

Chris' arms are folded across his chest; he's bouncing the heel of his boot off the steel toe of the other.

Leon is standing in the corner, his back against the wall. He looks up and catches Claire looking at him. They exchange sad smiles. There's history there, in that gaze.

Leon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The hiss of his breath seems to break the spell. Claire is the first to speak. "Is anyone else hungry?"

Chris stares at her in disbelief. Before he can say anything, Leon answers her.

"I'm kinda hungry."

"Should we order something?"

Leon shrugs.

"What's open?"

"Late night Chinese."

"You're gonna order food?" Chris asks. His brow is furrowed. Claire doesn't want to sound stupid; she simply nods.

"Cha Liu's is open 'til four in the morning," Leon offers.

"After all that, you're hungry?" Chris enquires.

Leon turns to him, still leaning his shoulder against the wall. The skin beneath his right eye is turning yellow, well on its way to purplish-black.

"Yeah," he says. "I am. Are you?"

There's a deep gash in Chris' left forearm. It has started to clot.

"No," he answers, shaking his head, incredulous.

"I'll order," Claire pipes up from where she's sitting. "Do we just want the usual?"

Leon doesn't answer immediately; he's waiting for Chris to say something else. They're watching each other uneasily. Chris is the first to look away.

"Yeah, just get the usual," Leon responds finally.

Jill is with the new staff doctor. He's treating her for what she assumes is a broken leg; it certainly feels like a broken leg, but she can't be sure. His last name is Cumberland. She doesn't know very much about him.

The fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead. Jill has always hated doctors' offices. "Well," he says at last, "the good news is it's not broken. It's severely bruised."

"What's the bad news?" she asks.

"No bad news," he smiles.

"Really?" she exclaims, pleasantly surprised. "I'm so used to hearing the bad with the good."

"Not in my office," he says. "Nothing but good here."

Jill is put at ease.

"What do I do now?"

"Try and stay off it," he tells her, "which, considering your profession, is not gonna be an easy feat."

"It never is," she sighs.

Cumberland shakes his head. He has no idea why anyone would want to do what Jill does. She's too flippant, he thinks. It's not funny. None of this is funny.

An hour passes, and the four of them are sitting in the lounge area of the facility. The seating is comprised of plastic chairs and ugly leather couches. Almost every couch has a tear in its baby-blue upholstery. Claire glowers at the room with sheer distaste. It's a new building, a new organization. She thought they'd at least spring for some new furniture.

The food at Cha Liu's is always delivered in the standard Chinese take-out cartons. Chris won't admit it, but he's always liked these old-school containers. Leon is taking them out of a large brown paper bag. The aroma is amazing; Chris' stomach starts to growl. Claire knew he'd come around, so she ordered him a portion. Before anyone can dig in, she orders Leon to stop putting the cartons out. "This table's dirty," she says. She goes to the sink and grabs the sponge everyone uses to wipe down the counters. They watch as she passes it vigorously over the table top. They look at her hands, not at each other.

There's nothing like this kind of food so late at night. They're so focussed on eating that they don't speak much; only brief comments here and there. Jill is wondering if Cumberland has eaten anything. She considers going to his office and letting him know there's a late dinner waiting. She stops herself, though, assuming that being a doctor has probably strictly limited his diet to health foods. If she goes to his office right now, however, she won't find him anyway. He's out back, having a smoke.

Leon catches Claire gazing at him again. He's just finished sucking up a mouthful of noodles; there's a little spot of grease on his chin. He smiles at her with his cheeks full and looks like a chipmunk. She smiles back and looks away. Chris has noticed this. He looks from one to the other with narrowed eyes, bouncing his left leg nervously on the ball of his foot. Leon feels guilty. He shouldn't forget himself. This isn't the time. But he hasn't seen Claire in years, and he knows she could use a smile right about now. Chris finishes his plate and puts his chopsticks down. The others are taking longer to finish. He burps a couple of times. Then he says, "If he lays one finger on her, I'll kill him."

"He's not gonna lay a finger on her," Leon tells him.

"You're sure, huh?" Chris challenges.

"I'm pretty sure."

"He won't blow the deal," Jill tries.

"'The deal'? Is that what we're gonna call it?" Chris' face is turning red.

Jill pops a chicken ball into her mouth so she doesn't have to answer.

"He won't risk it," Leon says on her behalf.

"Fucked if he won't risk it!" Chris snaps. Claire puts her hand on her forehead. She was expecting this. He looks at her, itching to hear what she has to say.

"I'm worried," she admits.

"No one said they liked the idea, Chris," Jill counters when she's swallowed the food.

"This is bullshit," Chris says, standing. Leon peers at him through heavy blonde bangs, then steals a look at Claire. This time it's she who catches him. "This is complete bullshit. All of us here, you know, we're a little older, we're a little wiser." He gesticulates with his hands. "Rebecca is eighteen 'til she dies. And he knows it. He knows it!" He turns away, paces a bit, then comes back. "I swear to you. One fucking finger, I'll blow his fucking head off." He leaves the room.

"I'm so tired," Jill says. Her bottom lip is trembling.

Three

"Don't stop… please…"

2:30 in the morning. The rain has been falling for hours. It's a heavy, driving rain that's pelting the windows. A bluish glow has settled in the room, is being shed on the furniture, on the large bed against the far wall; the shadows of the raindrops are cast across the room as they fall. A round of thunder interrupts the steady pattering; then a gentle moan, followed by the swishing of bed sheets as they slip across the mattress.

He can't get close enough to her. He has an arm around her waist and is leaning on the other one. Her legs are up and wrapped around him, her hands are on his chest. She can't see his face. She can only discern his silhouette in the dimness. He's thrown his head back. She can hear him panting; can see that his mouth is open. She's whimpering softly. "Don't stop, Albert…"

"No…"

"Please…"

"I won't…"

On the streets below, a Mercedes barely misses hitting a BMW; there's a blast of car horns and muted cursing. Rebecca still doesn't know where she is exactly, but it has to be somewhere in the downtown core. 'The Business District' they call it, the kind of area where people work at jobs that require security I.D. Everyone in power suits and crisp white shirts. Deals are being made, everything is a gamble. There's no chance of bumping into him on the street, ever. His apartment is on the second floor of the penthouse, so he doesn't have to leave.

She listens to the noises he makes as he fucks her. Sometimes they're light and breathless, other times they're raspy, ragged, desperate. Every so often, when he thrusts inside her, he punctuates his movement with a feral grunt. He's usually so austere; the sound reminds her that beneath it all he's still a man. Every time they do this he slips a little bit more, reveals more of himself. But the light is always faint.

The first time they were together this way it was sweet, surprisingly sweet, and slow. There was more time for kissing, licking earlobes, nibbling at nipples and soft flesh. She giggled more, teased him more by calling him 'Captain'. He went down on her every time, swirled his tongue around her clit, inhaled her scent. He held her up against him, loved it when she was on top so his hands could roam over her breasts, over her graceful back. There was more time for worship.

The occasion is coming to an end.

There's no time for more.

He releases her from his grip and sits up between her legs. He puts a hand on each of her knees and presses them against him. He's steadily plunging inside her. His shadowed figure leans back. She hears him suck his breath in through his teeth and hold it, then release it in a grateful exhale. "Harder…" she murmurs. He obliges. She loves the power he has over her at this moment, the control. "Oh God… Harder…" They've talked about this before. She's wet, and no matter what he does it won't hurt as much as she wants it to. She's ashamed to admit it, but it's true.

"I can't see you," she pants.

"No?" he asks, when he knows full well she can't.

"No…"

"Pity," he goads.

"I want to look at you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He laughs lightly.

"Beg me."

She's been here for weeks, but it still feels like the first night, like this whole episode has only lasted a couple of hours. Every memory he has of her has blended into one fantastic spell. He loves how young she's remained, even after all these years. He loves her rosy skin, the peach fuzz on her cheeks, her big bright eyes. All candy and innocence, no matter what she says to him; there's something about her lack of guile that makes her seem that way. But she's said things to him in this last little while, wise things, dirty things, that he never thought her capable of saying when he first met her. She always hits the nail on the head. She drives him crazy.

"Don't make me beg, Albert…" she gasps, a trace of a smile in her voice.

"No?"

"No…"

"But I love it when you beg."

"No."

"You're so good at it."

He drives himself deeper. She yelps.

"Please…"

"Yeah… say it again…"

"Please…"

Rebecca reaches up to touch his face, knowing full well she can't reach him. She can see the defined muscles of his arms in his darkened profile. He grabs hold of her wrists and holds them in front of her. If she squeezes her hands into fists he'll assume she's given up. She spreads her fingers out as if she wants to claw his chest. He leans into her, pinning her to the bed, and starts grinding his hips against her. She can't stand that he's ignoring her request. So she decides to test his patience.

"Villain…"

"What?"

"Villain," she says through clenched teeth. "You're a villain."

"Don't call me that," he growls.

"No?"

She can tell he's smiling.

"You want to look at me, huh?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Yeah?"

"Now."

"Alright," he says. "Alright."

He pulls out roughly and slides off the bed, then grabs her wrist and yanks her to her feet. When she's standing he stoops and puts his arm around her hips, lifting her off the floor. She gasps when he sinks himself inside her again. She's never slept with anyone so strong before. She wraps her legs around him. In a moment her back is against the window. The glass is cold, her skin is damp and slippery. She struggles to be released but he's restraining her, thrusting urgently. Blue and yellow light plays off his shoulders, chest, legs, face. She can finally see him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth is open. He's tilted his head to one side and he's panting.

"Open your eyes," she pleads.

"No."

"Please, Albert…"

"No."

"Please…"

"I said no."

Rebecca runs her nails down his back, leaving dark red streaks behind. She's very close. "Oh fuck!"

"Are you gonna come?"

"Yes!"

He feels his entire body flush hot.

"That's it…"

"Don't stop, Albert, please!" She sounds like she's going to cry.

"I won't…"

There's a moment, just before, when everything is suppliant, full of need. When she breaks free of it, she spills over the edge. He can feel her seizing up just before she cries out for him. Then it's waves, torrents, warmth, all over him. And he can't stand it anymore either.

Eruption, bucking, gasping; white knuckles, arched backs, tossed heads, nails in flesh, bitten fingers, shushes, sighs. Hands smoothed over hair, swollen lips kissed, heartbeats.

"Don't leave me, Rebecca…"

"Albert…"

"Please…"

Four

Claire has tried to call Leon twice.

The first time she got his answering machine and didn't want to leave a message. The second time he was there and picked up, but she hung up quickly after his hello.

I have to stop this. I'm acting like a stalker.

There's a good reason for Claire to be calling Leon. The paperwork she had to slog through just to have access to his phone number was incredible; after all that red tape, she thought she'd have no problem contacting him. But, for some reason, it's not easy.

She's excited.

It's a big mission, and she needs the best, and he's one of the best, but she can't help but blush and smile. She's missed him. If she calls him when she sounds ecstatic it will undermine the ultimately serious nature of the mission. So she's waiting until she calms down.

It's taking forever.

Jill is sitting in the facility lounge. She's propping her head up with her hand and staring off into space. A minute ago she was flipping through a fashion magazine. She had just finished taking a quiz entitled "Are you too good for him?" when she decided she felt like an asshole and tossed it into the trash. There's no need for serious reading material to be available at all times, of course, but she draws the line at stuff that makes her feel dumber after she reads it. Her eyes are getting heavier. She hasn't been sleeping well lately.

The door to the lounge opens. The sound startles her. She looks up.

Chris Redfield is standing there.

She smiles at him. "They got you too, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah… I've been expecting it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yup."

Jill stands up as Chris walks over to her. He's as rugged and handsome as ever. He bends down a little to kiss her on the cheek, then wraps her in his arms and gives her a long, intimate hug. "How're you doing, babe?"

"I'm good," Jill says. Her voice is muffled by his shoulder. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah," he agrees, releasing her. "Where's the hat?"

"I'm not wearing the hat," she says. "I've decided I hate hats."

"I liked that hat."

"Well, tough shit."

"Fine, fuck you."

"What do you drive these days?"

"Sweet motorbike. You? Some shit box?"

"Only the finest shit box for me."

"Fuck yeah!"

Claire's hands are cold and clammy. She's staring at the phone on her desk. Everything is neatly arranged, stacked, filed. That's not usually the case. It took her two hours to organize everything. The tidying was an excuse not to call Leon.

Rebecca sticks her head in Claire's office. "Hi!"

"Hi."

"What's up?"

"I finally got everything all cleaned up," Claire says, nodding.

"Nice," Rebecca acknowledges.

"Yes, yes," Claire continues slowly, deliberately. "Nice and neat."

"Have you called Leon yet?"

Claire looks up at her and heaves a heavy sigh. Rebecca knows what that means. "Don't worry," she tells her.

"I'm not worried."

"You're happy."

Claire nods.

"I am. Too happy."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I shouldn't be happy about this."

"Well, what, are you supposed to be miserable?"

"This is serious."

"No one's saying it isn't."

"I'm not supposed to be happy," Claire groans.

"But it's Leon!" Rebecca says with a wide grin. "Leon's awesome!"

Claire takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out again.

"Yeah."

"Call him," Rebecca says as she's leaving.

"I will."

"Call him!"

"How'd you get here?" Jill asks Chris. He's washing his hands in the sink. There are no more paper towels, so he wipes them on his jeans.

"I took the 405. Some dude was tailgating me for, like, two miles. Fuckin' moron."

"Did you get a call?"

"Sort of. Claire told me about it. What about you?"

"Claire told me too. You know who's upstairs? Rebecca Chambers."

Chris smiles.

"Fuck off! Really?"

"Yep."

He pokes each cheek with an index finger.

"Rebecca Chambers! What is she now, like, twelve?"

"No way, she's hardcore now."

"Yeah? What's her position?"

"Alpha Medic," Jill tells him.

"Yeah, she's a smart cookie. I'll be worried when she's old enough to vote."

"She's twenty-seven."

"No, see, never."

Claire is holding the phone too tightly with her left hand. She's listening to the steady, inviting sound of the ring tone. After four rings, a voice comes over the receiver. "Hello?"

"Leon?"

"Yeah!"

"Leon… it's Claire Redfield."

There's a pause.

"Hey Claire," Leon says.

He's not happy to hear from me, she thinks.

"Hey, how are you?"

"I'm doing well."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Nice."

"What about you?"

"I'm doing okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, pretty good."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

Another moment of silence. "So what's up?" he asks.

"I've got a favour to ask you."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's… um, it's a mission, and I've got to put together a team, and… I know you're…"

"How'd you get this number?" he interrupts.

Claire's heart stops. Yeah, he hates me right now.

"Um…"

"It doesn't really matter, I was just curious."

"Well, it took a long time, I had to get permission…"

"That must've sucked, huh? I hate dealing with those guys," he chuckles.

"Yeah, yeah, they're not very social," Claire laughs.

He may be laughing, but he still hates me.

"So you've got a mission?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of mission?"

"You want to help me take out Umbrella?"

She hears him take a deep breath. For a moment she's terrified.

"You know it."

"Got a pen?"

"Gimme a sec… yeah, go ahead."

When the conversation is over, Claire hangs up and puts a hand over her face. She knows her cheeks are going to be sore in a minute.

Five

Rebecca thinks she's made a mistake.

She's following him through an elaborate maze of hallways. They must be underground; it's damp and musty, the way a subway smells. Cloudy puddles of water have accumulated; the result of exposed plumbing. The fluorescent lighting casts a greenish tint on his back, his hair, and everything they pass. They've been walking for a while. She's trying to keep up with him. He won't slow down and he won't turn around.

It seems like the confrontation took place hours ago. Time has a habit of slowing down after such events. She can't get the image of their anxious faces out of her head. Chris' glare was the most sobering. At the time it seemed the noblest thing to do; to offer herself as proxy until everything was over. Now that she has time to think about it, as they have been walking silently for about half an hour, she realizes how difficult it must have been, for him in particular, to see her do this. 'Noble' doesn't seem to be the correct word.

This was selfish of me, wasn't it?

They round a corner. Up ahead, five men are standing in the way. She catches the tail end of their smutty conversation before they start roaring with laughter. She sees that they're heavily armed. The closer they get, the riper the air becomes with their funk. Rebecca can taste the bile rising in the back of her throat. She tries to hold her breath as much as possible. The gang finally notices their approach. The moment they catch sight of him, they're quiet. They quickly move out of the way and stand with their backs against the wall. She's stunned; they're terrified of him, even though he's unarmed. He doesn't acknowledge them as he passes.

Rebecca doesn't know where she's going exactly; only that she can't leave once she gets there. She's preparing herself for the worst. No doubt it's a research facility, considering her host, of some kind. It won't be comfortable. Her experience with those types of places tells her there will be many locked doors, many white laboratory coats.

And screaming.

There's always screaming in places like that.

She's getting winded from following him. His walk is brisk and steady; his movements are so deliberate that, she's certain, it's impossible for him to get lost in this labyrinth. He walks around corners without waiting for her to catch up. There's more incentive to stay with him than the smell and the mice; she doesn't want to run into anymore men like the ones they passed. The weaponry tells her they're here on orders. She doesn't want to know what their orders are.

She slips on a slimy bit of concrete and nearly wipes out. He hears her yelp as she knocks into one of the pipes. He stops abruptly and turns around. As she's regaining her footing, he says to her, in a very controlled, low voice, "Don't slip." She gets a look at his face for the first time in a while. Even beneath the sunglasses, she can see he hasn't aged.

"Sorry," she mutters.

He doesn't concede her apology. Instead, he continues walking.

She didn't expect him to be congenial, of course.

Anything that happens… I shouldn't be surprised.

Rebecca feels guilty that she volunteered. She figured that the team's chances of survival would suffer if anyone other than herself was detained. There's no way they can make it without Chris or Jill or Leon. And Claire is their Captain. Rebecca is the only one left who isn't handy with a gun. She can shoot well enough, but her main position is Alpha Medic. She's supposed to patch them up if they're wounded and keep them going. Just like in war; run behind the soldiers and pick up their guns as they fall. She felt that, as they are so good at what they do, they'd be able to take care of themselves.

But she can't get over how Chris looked at her; as if she was shaking hands with the devil.

There's no such thing as altruism.

Rebecca can see a large door at the end of the hallway. She notices that this seems to be his destination. She's preparing herself, but the closer they get, the weaker her knees become. She's starting to shake. He pulls a set of keys out of his jacket pocket. Their jangling echoes throughout the corridors, the ringing amplified in her ears. Suddenly, she stops walking.

He halts in front of the door when he notices her footsteps have ceased and turns around. The color has drained from her face. She's holding onto the wall with one hand, leaning slightly forward. It's clear she's feeling ill. She puts a hand over her mouth and closes her eyes. He stays where he is and watches her. Her breath starts to quicken. "Calm down, Miss Chambers," he says in the same reserved tone as before.

She doesn't.

"Calm down," he repeats. "Miss Chambers? Miss Chambers? Calm down, now."

Why doesn't he shut the fuck up? He's making it worse.

Rebecca leans against the wall, both hands over her mouth now. He starts to move towards her when she turns to him. "Get away from me, I'm fine!" she snarls. "I just need a minute!" He stops. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe normally. She apologizes to everyone in her head. After a moment she straightens up and looks him square in the face.

Don't let him think you're weak.

He's not impressed. He turns around and unlocks the door, revealing a stairwell.

"Follow me."

They climb the stairs and reach the main floor landing. Another key is used to unlock this second door. When they step through it, they are in a grand building lobby. There's a clerk sitting behind the large front desk. He's fairly young, and bored. "Goodnight, Mr. Wesker," he says in a voice that suggests rehearsal. Rebecca's host doesn't speak to him. Instead he uses another key to call one of the executive elevators. When it arrives, they step inside. He uses a fourth key to gain access to the floor marked "penthouse".

The walls of the elevator are mirrored. No matter where she looks, Rebecca can glimpse him. She tries to occupy her mind by thinking of superficial things. The last time she saw him he was wearing his S.T.A.R.S. uniform. Tonight he's wearing a suit. She didn't think he was the type to wear anything tailored so finely. And she thinks, but can't be sure, that he's wearing a scent of some kind, something spicy. Aesthetically he's very different from the man she met almost a decade ago. His demeanour has remained the same.

There was, however, one time when he seemed, for Rebecca's lack of a better word, warm.

But she pushes the memory out of her head.

The elevator arrives on the penthouse floor. The doors open directly into an office. One entire wall is comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. A marvellous desk is in front of them. The furniture is sleek and modern. She can see a staircase leading to the second floor. He walks ahead of her. "The bathroom is upstairs and to your right, next to the bedroom. If you're hungry I'll have something sent up to you. The bed is yours while you're here." He walks across the room to the desk and sits down.

Rebecca remains where she is.

"I'm staying here?"

"Yes."

"What is this place?"

"What does it look like?"

"Your office."

"That's what it is."

"You have a bedroom in your office?"

"On the second floor."

"It must be tiring being a villain, I guess," she quips.

He glares at her.

"Don't call me that," he says steadily.

She's scared, but pretends not to be.

"You sleep up there?"

"I live here."

His comment startles her.

"You brought me to where you live?" she asks, outraged.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Anywhere but where you live!"

"Heroes can't be choosers, Miss Chambers."

I deserved that.

"You're my responsibility until your team mates fulfill their end of the bargain," he tells her.

"This is bullshit!"

"Would you prefer it if I locked you up somewhere?" he asks, his temper rising.

"I'd prefer to be any place you haven't made yourself comfortable in! Maybe one of the cells you reserve for whoever you happen to be torturing at any given moment!"

She feels a gust of wind on her face, hears what sounds like a blade slicing through the air, like a guillotine falling. She doesn't know how he's done it, but in a split second he's standing in front of her, his mouth set in an angry line.

That's it, I'm dead, is the last thing she thinks before she faints.