He knocked three times before getting impatient and just opening the damn door with his key.

                Vash the Stampede was not in the room.

                Cursing, Wolfwood sat at the foot of his own bed, running a hand through his hair. Another cigarette was pulled out of his pocket, lit, put to his lips. A protracted drag made him feel somewhat better.

                Oh, Christ.

                That expression…that expression…

                Wolfwood knew that the world was full of pain. He knew that everyone had their own sorrows, their own hurts, their own heartaches and failures.

                But that face. That face…just the quickest peek, just a hint at what the Humanoid Typhoon hid beneath those bizarre sunglasses, that red, red coat, that ridiculous hair…

                And Wolfwood hadn't known that any creature was capable of knowing quite so much pain.

                He sucked in some more cancer.