Set after the OVAs and before the much hated Season 2.

You have 1 new message, the phone chirped, its screen glowing dimly in a dark hotel room. Playing message:

'The people upstairs are very happy with your success,' a male voice said, belonging to a person who Hei had never met and never will. 'They've sent someone to debrief you shortly and from here on out he'll be working with you on future endeavors. Till then, consider yourself off-duty. We'll be contacting you soon.'

End of message. You have no new messages.

There was a light knock on the door. Hei strode towards it, picking up a magazine from the coffee table along the way, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet. Stepping to the side, he held the magazine upside the eyehole. 'Who is it?'

If he was running a murder op on someone who was currently in his room with a door that had an eyehole, he'd knock, wait till the light in the eyehole was covered – signaling that the subject was looking through it to check who was outside – and then shoot through the eyehole with gun and silencer. Of course, there would be many other factors and questions that needed to be considered: whether the subject was alone, whether the corridor was empty at the time, the procurement and dumping of the gun, the question as to whether the death warranted such an overt method that would have the authorities in heightened alert, and so on and so forth. Even so, , the person knocking on Hei's door could maybe just be another one of the hotel's many guests or an employee delivering an order to the wrong room. Then again, even if the Syndicate was dead, he or she could just as well be with one of the many intelligence organization whose members Hei have killed over his very active career. And in Hei's line of work, you don't get second chances in these situations. It helped to be paranoid.

No gunshot. Instead he heard a very familiar meow.

He unlocked the door and opened it to reveal a black cat sitting politely in front of him.

'You look quite the mess,' Mao remarked. 'Mind letting me in? Apparently this establishment has a no pets policy.'

Hei shook his head in wonder and gestured him inside.

If anyone were to enter Room 201 in the middle of the night, they would have been greeted by the sight of a man of Chinese ancestry sitting on the sofa who was speaking and gesturing with both hands to a collared black cat perched on the coffee table who would, unnervingly, dip its head in the way a human would nod and, more unnervingly, talk back, the both of them oblivious to the nearby lit but soundless TV. The channel was switched to a grainy black-and-white film, the edges of the screen crackling with static feedback.

Mao listened patiently as Hei filled him in on everything he missed since his connection to the Syndicate server was cut and his mind left to drift in mental limbo, from the preservation of Hell's Gate to Yin's evolution and subsequent disappearance. He waved his paw to ask follow-up questions, but for the most part the other Contractor didn't speak a word. It was the most Hei ever found himself saying since he went on the run with Yin, and his voice showed it in its raggedness, which Mao pretended not to notice.

'It seems I've been out in the cold for quite a while,' Mao said when Hei indicated that he was finished by standing up. 'So what are you going to do now?'

'I don't know,' Hei croaked as he headed for the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of water from the tap. 'I honestly don't know, Mao.'

'You do understand that this is the CIA we're talking about?' Mao asked. 'Once you let those guys at Langley get their gloves on you, they don't let go till you're damaged goods. And though I appreciate having control of my body again, I don't like the fact that you got me a collar too.'

'We're Contractors, Mao. What would you have me do?' Leaning back against the kitchen bench, Hei waved around him. 'This is the only way for us to make a living.'

Mao scowled and didn't point out that cats don't, per se, make a living. 'Be that as it may, the CIA are not in the business of handing out freebies, no matter how good you are to them. They like holding onto everything they can get, especially information. They won't tell you where Yin is even if you single-handedly returned the US back to its superpower status.' He began to briskly groom himself, his collar bell tinkling softly. 'But on to other matters. Is Huang still alive?'

That was Mao for him. One second he's willing to put him down and the next he's helping. 'Why do you ask?'

'If we're going to play this game, I'd rather we have a proper team. Since a Doll's out of a question, what with Yin gone, and the fact that I doubt either of us would know of any other Contractors who'd be willing to work with us, I think he would be the next best option. At any rate, he'd be another set of eyes we could use.'

'Can you check?'

Mao cocked his head in thought. 'I'll do some digging online.'

'Alright.'

They were both silent for a long moment, Mao beginning to clean his ears. They both knew that the chances were slim to none that the Syndicate hadn't already taken out Huang before its own demise. At best, Mao would find nothing. At worst, a coroner's report. Regardless, they've been in the life long enough to appreciate the benefits of optimism. They've seen the results for those who couldn't. The burnouts, the daredevils and generally the short-lived. Hence the fact that they themselves were still alive.

Hei suddenly realized how eerie their conversation would sound to an eavesdropper; that they could so easily accept one of their colleague's disappearance and the possibility of another's death. More so than just a predilection for rational, if not cynical judgement, a Contractor lacked the faculties for sentiment, attachments, maybe even empathy. Perhaps Contractors are more evolved than humans, as a woman on her deathbed once mused out loud to Hei. Yet he still couldn't help but think that such progress came at a price that wasn't worth paying. Though he mourned Yin, some part of him had already written her off and closed the book, like he already did for all the friends and foes he'd met and lost over the years.

'Where are we currently?' Mao suddenly asked.

'Bangkok.'

The cat narrowed his eyes. 'For business or pleasure?'

'Business.' The CIA had requested Hei for it and the result was the target, who was a researcher of Gate-related matter who defected from the States and took his work to the other side, being found dead in a restroom from apparent cardiac arrest while he was on his holiday in the City of Sin's famous red-light district. As bad as it may sound, Hei had a talent for creating fatalities the police would rather file under 'natural causes' than 'homicide,' for even though heart attacks could be induced in quite a number of frightening ways thanks to the growing fields of biochemistry and medicine, the former ensured less form-filling and footwork than the latter. Thailand's police are just as susceptible to the vice of sloth as any other country's law enforcement on the face of the Earth. So in short, Hei's modus operandi ensured that the CIA got both complete deniability and anonymity.

'I see. In that case, I take it we'll be leaving soon then?' Mao asked, not pressing for details as he knew Hei's work well enough to figure it out on his own.

Hei nodded. 'Catching a flight out tomorrow.'

'Where to?'

'I was thinking we head back to Tokyo.'

Mao processed that. Made sense if they found out Huang was alive. They also knew the city and with the Syndicate now a falling house of cards there was no danger in returning. 'Get some sleep then,' he said without commenting on the bloodshot in Hei's eyes or the bags underneath. 'I'll start searching right now. Might have something in the morning.'

Hei nodded and headed over back to the sofa whilst Mao padded across the coffee table towards the remote. He heard the hiss of the TV shutting off as he flopped himself down.

'Doesn't this room come with a bed?' Mao asked wryly.

'Hate the springs. Can't sleep on it,' Hei mumbled in reply as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan.

'You know you've changed. I never partook you for the drinking kind. That was more Huang's thing.'

'What's your point?'

'I'm not going to tell you when your bedtime is, Hei, but I hope you understand that the sad drunkard is awfully passé.'

'Good night Mao,' Hei said stiffly, ending the conversation.

Another long silence.

'Hei?'

'Yeah?'

'I'm expecting something out of this. I don't do freebies too you know.'

'Even for a friend?'

'Even for a friend.'

'I'll buy you a litter box.'

'I honestly don't find that funny, Hei. Not one bit.'

'A litter box and a scratching post then.'

If anyone were to enter Room 201 in the middle of the night, they would have been greeted by the sight of a man of Chinese ancestry sleeping on the couch, as quiet as a corpse, while a black cat was sitting unnervingly motionless on the coffee table. Occasionally, like a photo still suddenly coming to life, the illusion would break, and the man would murmur something, or the cat would, even more unnervingly, hiss fluent English under its breath with a disgruntled tone, but for the most part, neither stirred, not till the first rays of sunlight shone through the curtain drapes and the first birds tweeted their greetings to the new day.