This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032

Erik—9:30 AM

I sat on the bench, feeling the wood creak underneath me. With the unyielding attentiveness of a madman, I kept turning the bill over and over in my hands—the last ten dollars I had to my name. Ten dollars—and yet, I doubted it would take me as far as I wanted to go.

Four years. I'd spent four years and nearly five million dollars running. But from what and why…questions I still couldn't answer. I pulled a tattered, worn picture from my bag and stared for a moment before replacing it. My family—my beautiful family—how I must have broken their hearts. Someday I'd explain myself to them. Someday…

Stowing the bill in my pocket, I took stock of myself. My shoes had holes worn in them. I had long since walked the hem off my jeans—they'd never been too long, just too old. My shirt and jacket were in the same state of disrepair as the rest of my clothes—old, tattered, a few random stains here and there. I sighed. How much of a bum I must have looked to anyone walking by me. How the fools must have pitied me.

Yet I smiled. I had it. I hadn't squandered money on a ticket to Paris for nothing. The Opéra Populaire—the vulgar, new one—still stood, and in its heart I had found what I'd most desired. I didn't dare take it from my bag for fear that a passing gendarme would take it from me, so I settled for a peek into the bag only.

My sword. The elegant blade with the death's-head grip was finally back in my possession. I grinned, wondering where to go with only ten dollars left to me. I thought for a moment, recalling a small—but decent—bakery not far away. A celebratory cake was in order.

And then I heard it. It came ringing through my ears, so clearly I could not have imagined it.

"Venez-moi…venez-moi…s'il vous plaît, venez-moi…"

I whipped my head about. French? Here? And so…Americanized… I sighed. The voice was recognizable, if slightly deeper than when I'd last heard it four years prior. I stood up, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. My sore feet complained as they took the full weight of body and cargo, but I had little other choice.

Walking to the street entrance—I had idly wandered into Central Park's Strawberry Fields—I managed to hail a cab. As I got in, the driver glanced at me in the mirror. "Where to?"

Sighing, I handed over the ten-dollar bill. "Seventh and West 57th, or as close to it as that'll get me."

The driver laughed. "You got it." I sat back in the seat, staring out the window as we idled in traffic—and couldn't help noticing the driver glancing back at me.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

His eyebrows were knitted together. "Aren't you…?"

I growled low in my throat. "If you say my name, I will make you regret it. Just stop talking and drive the damn cab."

He nodded. I stared out the window again.

After a few more minutes—we were nearing Lincoln Center—he glanced at me in the mirror again. "So, going home, Mr. Muhlheim?"

I growled and reached into my bag.