After his trip to Rome, Henry was sure it couldn't get any worse. He was wrong. Too wrong. Everything was crumbling-quick as a house of cards in a gust of wind, and at the same time agonizingly slow, like a drop falling in silence. Winter felt it with his whole body: they had passed the point of no return. There was only darkness. Only the abyss.

Bunny must disappear. No, more, they must get rid of Bunny. It became not an idea, but a necessity, like breathing, like defense, like a survival reflex. He became a crack in the fragile window of their world, and everything else began to crumble with it. The weather seemed to be mocking him-it was too warm for February, mild, almost spring-like. No evil winter, no snow-it was as if nature itself refused to play along with the tragedy that was just beginning to play out. It was annoying. Henry could feel the tension pounding under his skin, as if his heart was no longer beating, but beating away the anxiety. He stood against the dormitory wall, his back against the cool brick, slouching slightly. His hand slipped into his coat pocket, fumbling for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it, taking a quiet drag. The smoke circled his face, mingling with the slight dampness in the air.

Their figure appeared on the path in front of the building, a familiar gait, a silhouette recognizable even through the twilight of the coming evening. His heart was thudding, the taste of fear and determination in his throat. He walked quickly, almost jogging, feeling everything in him clench, like a spring before a gunshot.

"We need to talk. It's serious,” he said when he was close.

Henry's voice, usually steady, almost detached, shook at the last words. Almost snapped, as if he were horrified at what he was about to say. His eyes, cold, glassy, opened wider for a moment, revealing what he'd been hiding: fear. Not for himself. For all of them.

Droplets fell on his shoulders, on his hair, on the ground. And every second they stood silently.