This was a familiar situation, one that he had always felt comfortable in (now, whether that comfort came from decades of experience or just because it was what he had an innate talent for, he couldn't say.)

again, it was familiar, but it wasn't quite the same.

last time, all he had to deal with were incompetent agents and a menagerie of different 'interest groups'. This time he was being tracked by an object of infinite potential, something akin to the very machine he had poured his life's work into.

Samaritan, controlled by Decima, unleashed upon the world to perfectly and completely track down any single person, terrorist or otherwise... In this case, Samaritan would soon be (if it hadn't started to already) hunting him.

...

Not him, per se, but Harold Finch...

He had to be optimistic that it would not be able to track down all his previous lives and alias's. Especially not his life or the one connected to Grace. He had to be optimistic; he needed to be cautious, every move of every person in the city of New York was being analyzed and stored.

How had it come to this?

Why had he believed so idealistically in the right thing, even though time and time again humanity proved just how dangerous and deranged and disgusting it was?

When did his own creation, his own Machine, his legacy turn so corrupt that it sanctioned the killing of an individual who was nothing more than an advantage seeker?

He shook his mind free of the doubt, the second-guessing, the hesitation. No time to devote attention to other things right now. He had been sloppy with the congressman and it had cost him. He couldn't afford a mistake like that again. Avoiding Mr. Reese's and Ms. Shaw's (and even Detective Carter's) attempts on learning of him was child's play, this time he was matched against an opponent he had near no hope of beating.

But he would try his very best to outsmart it, them.

He knew that Decima held in its hand pocket aces. So he bluffed his way through, all or nothing, everything depended on the outcome of this game of chance. He held cards up his sleeves,but bringing them out into the open meant risking their (and his) demise.

as if there weren't enough dead on his conscious already.

He pulled up the scarf and pulled down his hat, shielding his chin and ears from the bitter chill, and the oncoming struggle. Humans has led him to this, so humans would lead him out... Luckily, here in New York, there were hundreds of thousands of them.

And so, Harold Finch disappeared among the crowds of people with pulled up scarves and pulled down hats.