Elena waits anxiously outside the shop behind the Eastport Cathedral. It's never been so hard before. Her stomach goes in knots at the thought of what she's about to do. The others, she couldn't care less about them, they were scummy lowlifes and she felt the need to wash obsessively every time they touched her. But him... he's different. That he's cunning and clever and dangerous, there's no doubt. But a killer? She remembers his ravings as he lay in her bed, white-hot and delirious with fever. They were the panicking desperation of a man with his back against the wall, not the blood-drenched ramblings of a psychopathic monster. The thought of him climbing the stairs to the gallows on a cold grey morning, barefoot and blindfolded, is like a dagger twisting in her heart.

'You won't miss him,' a voice says next to her. She jumps and wheels round.

'I thought I told you people not to come here?'

'We don't trust you enough to deal with this on your own. I think you're wavering, Elena. This job is not for those who waver, so we're here to make sure you're as good as your word.'

She is silent. Eventually they go inside and leave her alone, standing on the street corner like some ragbag whore. There, at last, a thin figure in black, walking with a slight limp. He comes over to her and waves a paper in her face. It's the original delivery sheet from the spice crate, taken off so neatly that you can barely see the holes. Pure artistry. She screws up a smile and takes his hand, leading him inside the shop. They're all waiting for him, ominous black pillars in their dark clothes and masked faces. He fights like a tiger, but four of them against him can only end one way. Pretty soon he's suspended between two of them, his legs dragging, all the fight beaten out of him by fists and feet and truncheons. His face is bloody, nose broken, lip split, but his uneven eyes burn out at her with a mixture of anger, dismay and, worse, resignation. She can only watch as they drag him outside and throw him in the wagon, bolting the door. He clings to the barred window, still staring at her. During the whole ordeal, he made not a sound. Some of them shout and curse and pray, but he is totally silent. She wonders if he'll ever speak again.

That's not the end of it. They make her attend his interrogation. Why they need to interrogate him, she doesn't know, but they do it anyway. The red-hot pokers down the soft skin on the inside of his arms. The horse-whip flaying his back to ribbons as he's tied to a backless chair. Worst of all, the rack, his scrawny frame arching and twisting in pain as his joints are slowly stretched further and further. It takes dislocation of both shoulders before he finally breaks his silence, his mouth cracking in a tormented scream, words pouring out like a flood. Yes, I killed Karras. Yes, I killed Constantine, and Truart, and all of them, whatever you say, please just make it stop.