Alfred stared at the psychiatrist's beaky face across the desk, already hating him. He hated him because he was a psychiatrist, hated his ugly tweed suit that, Alfred was sure, had been bought off some department store rack. The jacket didn't fit him right; it was too baggy in the sleeves, and the jacket itself sat oddly on the man's narrow shoulders.

"Mr. Ashford," drawled the old bastard in his offensive Brooklyn English, leafing through a file stapled to the inside of a manila folder. He wore gold wire-frame glasses, and Alfred was sure he'd bought them at a drug-store as an afterthought, probably when he'd gone to buy his cat a tin of food. He seemed like a cat person, at least. "You had an episode recently."

"It was nothing," said Alfred, shifting in the overlarge Chesterfield. He looked down, studying the toes of his oxfords. They'd need another good shine. No matter what, New York always seemed to leave a particularly nasty class of filth on his shoes.

"Not what the report says, Mr. Ashford." The psychiatrist's hair was sparse, parted to one side, a thin spot on the back of his scalp. Male pattern baldness. Alfred frowned. Poor bastard. "You're upset about your twin sister's death. I understand that. But you can't get better if you continue to dwell on it, Mr. Ashford."

Alfred said nothing. He was sixteen now, but every day still felt like the day after Alexia's death. A coldness followed him everywhere, and the world always felt overcast, permanently gray. He'd loved his sister dearly, and her death, it had taken the sun from his world. "I don't need your bloody help," he said, impatiently.

"Then why are you here, Mr. Ashford?"

Alfred stared at the Picasso reprint hanging on the wall behind the psychiatrist, one of the pieces from his blue period. "My butler made me," he said, feeling a pang of resentment. Scott had pushed him into meeting this overpaid know-nothing. All he'd done was bloodied a researcher; it hardly called for a shrink.

Silence. Then the shrink asked, "Alfred, do you always let others make decisions for you?"

"No," he lied.

"I'm sensing a bit of dishonesty," said the shrink.

"No. You're not."

"Mr. Ashford, you'd nearly beaten a researcher to death."

"They asked about Alexia. I didn't like their tone."

"So you think beating everyone who asks about her is the answer to your problem?"

"It's a bloody start," said Alfred, and he paused, started chuckling. "'Bloody start'. Get it?"

The shrink stared gravely at him.

The door suddenly banged open, startling him. Alfred quickly hid the unopened bottle of pills in his drawer, then straightened his jacket and hair. He was expecting one of his superiors from Umbrella for a routine inspection of the prison compound, and he wanted to look presentable. But it wasn't his superior. Grayson walked in, carrying Alfred's usual four o'clock tea.

"You feeling okay, Alfred?" he asked.

Grayson belonged to his sister, but Alfred had always appreciated Grayson's looks. He was tall, built, and tanned—something distinctly Mediterranean about those qualities, Alfred decided. But his most brilliant feature was his eyes, which were a pale diamond color. "You look better," he said, and he put the tray on the desk. Alfred could smell the Taylor of Old Bond Street on him.

"I feel fine," he said, cradling his cup of tea and rising from his seat. Alfred turned to the window, staring at the blue ocean horizon, and the large white clouds bubbling up from it. "Have you heard anything regarding our visitors, Grayson?"

Grayson stood beside him now, shoulders squared, hands clasped at the small of his back. He wore a black waistcoat and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black dress trousers. His dark hair was neatly pomaded. The sunlight coming through the window glinted along the silver Cartier he wore around his wrist. "The suits? I think they're going to be busy," he said, and he looked at him, shaking his head. "Didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?" asked Alfred, raising an eyebrow. He primly sipped at his tea, then set the antique cup on its saucer with a clink. For an American, Alfred decided, Grayson certainly fixed a brilliant cup of tea.

"Raccoon City is gone," said Grayson, and he was looking out the window now, something distant and removed in his expression. "Nothing left of it," he added, frowning. "Government dropped a couple of missiles on the city." He looked at Alfred, and said, "There was an outbreak." He took something from his back pocket and handed it to him. "Look."

Alfred hadn't heard about this. He set the cup of tea on the edge of the desk, then took the rolled up paper from Grayson. He unrolled it. It was a newspaper from Lima; Alfred had the papers delivered to Rockfort, so he could read about the goings-on in the world. He didn't speak a lick of Spanish, so he'd have Grayson, who was fluent in Spanish, read him the articles. The picture showed an enormous mushroom cloud. "I can't bloody read this, and you know it," he said. "But I can take an educated guess."

"'Raccoon City is Erased' is the title of the article," said Grayson. "Not a very creative title, but nobody ever accused a journalist of being creative. That said, the article talks about the 'dead walking'." Grayson stared at him, frowning. "I know Umbrella was experimenting with the undead; you'd told me as much. But that, Alfred? That's just crazy. Infecting, and then blowing up, an entire city? Crazy."

Alfred rolled up the paper and handed it back to Grayson. "I had no idea," he said, and meant it. "I'm administrative, Grayson. If Umbrella was planning something, they wouldn't tell me. My concern is our paramilitary operation." Alfred smiled, although he tried his best not to. "So I take it Jill Valentine is dead?"

"Don't sound so chipper," said Grayson gloomily. "But yeah, probably."

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder and said, "My condolences."

"You don't mean that at all."

"You're absolutely right," said Alfred, laughing. "Not in the bloody least."

Grayson shook his head. Alfred opened his mouth to say something else, something rather unpleasant about Jill Valentine, but was quickly cut off by his sister, who'd appeared behind them, slipping her arm across Grayson's shoulders. "Well," she said cheekily, tipping her head on one side. "That is wonderful news. Not that he ever loved her anyway."

And how could Grayson actually love Jill Valentine, Alfred thought, when he had Alexia. She was tall, willowy, and blonde, and Alfred had told Alexia several times that she should consider, perhaps if she grew bored of Umbrella, pursuing a career in movies. After all, the yanks loved hiring British actors to play yanks, and Alexia was certainly more attractive than most of the women in Hollywood. "That is true indeed," said Alfred, and he smiled at his sister.

"Alexia," said Grayson, and he sighed, shaking his head. "How about we don't talk about Jill."

Alexia chuckled and said, "Oh, love. We all know you love me. But allow me, please, to savor the 'other woman's' death, hm?" Her perfume, something sweet and floral, wafted through the office. She smiled, absently smoothing a crease in her dark violet dress. "I've been waiting long enough."

"Alexia," said Grayson, and he sighed again.

"Harman, let my sister have her fun," chided Alfred, picking up his lukewarm tea and finishing it off. "After all," he added, setting down the cup and saucer on the desk, "you do belong to her."

"I never said—"

"Good. Then you'll let my dear sister have her fun."

"Alfred, you should take your pills," said Grayson, and he looked pleadingly at him.

"He already took them," said Alexia, gliding away from the window and sitting down at the coffee table in front of his desk, on the leather-upholstered sofa. She started leafing through a stack of papers Alfred had been meaning to take down to Martin, mostly financial reports, and a few requisitions for the prison. "You worry too much, Grayson dear." She looked at him with doe-like blue eyes, and chided, "You're going to get permanent wrinkles around your mouth, should you keep frowning like that."

"I'll be okay," said Grayson, and he collected Alfred's cup and saucer, and put it back on the tray.

"I don't want you ruining your gorgeous, chiseled face with wrinkles, Grayson," said Alexia, beaming. "Think of how horrible our wedding photographs will look. Isn't that right, Alfred? They'd look dreadful."

"I agree, sister," said Alfred, grinning. He'd always loved giving Grayson a hard time; it was a pastime of theirs, a sort of tradition, like fraternity hazings. "Perhaps you should spend a little less time in the sun, too. You're getting a bit too dark."

"Alfred," said Grayson, an edge in his voice.

"It's the Italian in him," said Alexia flippantly, draping herself across the sofa like a beautiful lounging cat. "Or Greek. Or both. Which one was it, Grayson?"

"Italian," said Grayson, exasperatedly. "Italians who'd immigrated to England, then immigrated to America. I've told you both this before. But maybe there was some Greek in there too? Who knows."

"As long as it isn't—"

"Alfred," said Grayson. "Please. Stop."

"You know I simply enjoy giving you a hard time," said Alfred.

"As if," said Alexia, flipping through one of Alfred's gun catalogs, "I'd ever entertain the idea of marrying him if he—"

"Can you both cut it with the racist shit?" said Grayson.

Alfred shrugged, and so did Alexia.

"Thank you," said Grayson. "I know it's hard for you both, that whole decency thing, but I appreciate the effort."

Alexia put the catalog down, turned around on her knees, her hands on the backrest. "Oh, I'm sorry, Grayson," she cooed, tilting her head. Alfred watched Alexia flick her hair to one side, baring a shoulder, and the long white sweep of her neck. She coyly smiled, and Alfred shook his head. Sometimes his sister could be a little too indecent. "Why don't you come over here so I can properly apologize?" she said sultrily, teasing a finger along the deep neckline of her dress, as though she intended to pull it down. Alfred clenched his teeth, his jaw tensing. "With a kiss, perhaps," she added. "Perhaps more, if you're a good boy."

"Maybe later, Alexia," said Grayson, and he started toward the door, the tea and kettle rattling on the tray in rhythm with his long-legged gait. "I have to get dinner ready." He stopped in front of the Swiss clock that concealed the mansion's entrance, and stared at them, perfectly expressionless. "What do you both want?"

"You're just going to ignore my sister, Harman?" said Alfred, and he felt offended on Alexia's behalf. "She wanted a kiss."

"I'm a little sick," said Grayson. "Don't want Alexia to catch anything."

Alfred nodded, and then said, "See, sister? He's only looking out for your health."

Alexia pouted. "Fine," she said, and she sighed, turning back around. "Make Devonshire crab soup," she said. "Or that shrimp-and-coconut risotto you'd made the other day, the one with mango. That was rather delicious."

"Sure. That sound okay to you, Alfred?"

"Whatever my dear sister wants," said Alfred.

Grayson bowed his head, then turned and left the room. He wasn't the most formal butler, certainly nothing like Scott, but Alfred didn't mind his lack of professionalism. Grayson was his best friend, and they'd known each other since they were babies. He turned to speak with Alexia, but Alexia had gone.

She'd probably gotten bored, Alfred decided, and had gone to find something to occupy herself with. He grabbed his rifle from against the wall and slung it over his back. Since his superiors were likely too busy cleaning up Raccoon City, Alfred supposed he'd find something to do while Grayson made dinner. He left his office, passed his new secretary without a word, and went out onto The Palace's balcony. It overlooked the grounds, and he saw a few of the Spanish gardeners tending the grass, and the flower-beds.

Alfred took the rifle off his back and peered through the scope, the laser trembling between one of the gardener's eyes. "Perhaps I'll tour the facility later," he said to himself, and he pulled the trigger.