It was the dead of night. In the foggy city of Boston, just one light could be seen dimly shining through the curtains of a house. The man that was still working at that late hour was no-one less than the Templar Grand Master. He was writing a letter in French to an ally that could have provided vantages to his cause. He kept writing and writing, but nothing good seemed to come out of his pen, not that night. He rubbed his eyes, repeating himself that he was just tired, that maybe he didn't remember French that well, or maybe that it was age that had a toll on him. He leaned forward with a light cracking from his bones, then he got up and walked to his bedroom. 'Tomorrow is going to be the right day. Tomorrow, I'm going to finish that letter and send it', he kept repeating to himself while undressing and quickly getting in the bed. "Tomorrow" he repeated, this time loud, to the empty room. But the truth was another. The truth was that three days had passed since that cursed scrap of paper had arrived and he couldn't write a decent reply to it. He simply couldn't. Every time he tried to begin his work, he failed; it was a new thing for him. A part from tiredness, a part from the daily stress, he was just not able to do that anymore. Was it doubt what he started to hide? Was the feeling of something wrong going on? Or had he just grown tired of it? Secretly, he had thought about giving up his job. To simply pass it on, but he knew how weak his comrades were. His Second in Command –Charles Lee- was not merely apt to that role, for how much he had tried to train him and to horn his skills. What, then? He had came in touch with so many different situations in those last three years, that he started doubting about his cause, his life, his believes. Was it too late to change?