Now, Mark may be a little too injured right now to tell—but the individual standing before him is not Cecil Stedman. Or even Donald, for that matter.

He let out a soft, breathy groan, his eyes slightly glazed over and his body limp on the floor as he lay on his side, weakly clutching his head with both bloodied hands.

You stood over him, leaning down slightly as you scrutinised every inch of him, assessing whether or not he remained a threat—the answer was quite clear.

"You're not—did he send you?" He spoke no louder than a gentle, hoarse whisper. After all, that damned ear piece stuck deep in his head was still planted, and he could still hear the shrill frequency of it blaring in his ears like a machine gun despite it all being over.

And of course, his question which was really more rhetorical than anything else, wasn't wrong. Cecil did send you to clean up the mess. And you were going to do just that. It's all you get paid for, right?

It's not like you were going to do anything else. Not like you were going to stitch Mark up and fix him a warm bath. Not like you were going to scoop him up and carry him back to a cosy room back at the GDA.

Of course not... right?

You would never... ever...

Okay, maybe you're thinking about it, but you still wouldn't do it. Right?