It was like swimming back up to the surface after a long, deep dive. Even the sound in his ears seemed to be there.

I just killed a man.

I'm all smeared with blood.

Springfield is dead.

I've got a really bad past now. Enough to be executed.

I actually did it. I stabbed him to death.

Didn't I want to do it for such a long time?

Yes, but not in such a literal sense.

He fought the instinct of wiping his hands on his trousers. Those clothes were not his.

And, damn it, I'm close to wetting my pants!

"Come on", he heard Knox's voice at the edge of his consciousness. "You can wash your hands at the staff's bathroom, it's not far. Vivian, would you arrange for our late employee to be taken away?"

Had he just heard bathroom? Yes!

"No problem", Vivian said. "Harris and Friedrich are down at the basement. They've been informed. They've actually been looking forward to taking that blundering bloke away – Clarke's friends, you see?"

"That's very clever of you." Knox was seemingly impressed.

Recognizing the German name, he automatically corrected Vivian's pronunciation in his mind. That ch sound, everybody seemed to be thinking it was the same as a k. In this case, it ought to be the soft one.

Here he was, just having killed someone and now bothering about such details!

He wanted to pick up the discarded shirt again, feeling somewhat naked in that undershirt-like piece of clothing, but there was no way of putting it on when one of his hands was that bloody.

"Come on, boy." Knox led him out towards the bathroom, and he trotted after him without turning around.

I've just killed, and he's still calling me boy…

They entered the men's room, a small and slightly smelly place, and Knox was kind enough to turn on the water for him. He thanked him with a nod and hurried to wash off the worst, then headed straight for the next cubicle. He was in need for some privacy now.

"Hey, where're you going?" Knox called after him. "Feeling sick?"

He shook his head, pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, already fumbling his fly open.

Ye gods, what have you done?

He briefly wondered if he should put up the toilet seat, but decided against it rather quickly. The mere touching it with the tips of his fingers would be a rather unhygienic action.

Couldn't Springfield have cleaned the toilets before he killed him?

Good riddance, he told himself while leaning against the side wall of the cubicle with one shoulder in exhaustion. Just like Knox said. It was a good thing you killed the swine.

They wouldn't count that arguments when they arrested him.

Come on, he tried to calm himself, nobody knows, and nobody ever will except Knox and Vivian and those to enemies of Springfield's. And those two guys don't even know it was you who did it.

Cheer up, Knox is content with you. And Vivian actually called you magnificent.

I wonder what Benji is going to say?

This could get me on the electric chair.

Nah, not me. I'm too young.

You're almost twenty. They've sentenced people to death who were younger than you.

Knox made me. And Vivian.

Another argument that won't count. You were free to choose, after all.

But they won't get their hands on me. They'll never know. Nobody is going to miss that ugly brute. Nobody is going to find out what I did. After all, Knox is interested in keeping me.

If they knew at the orphanage… They would probably turn him in straight away, cursing him and wishing him to be sent to hell.

No, not quite. They would pray to God to forgive the poor young sinner.

Well, he didn't care if God forgave him or not. He did not believe in God anyway.

Did his parents, in a different world now, have some way of knowing what he was doing? And would they approve of it? Their own son, a murderer…

He finished, zipped up his trousers and flushed the toilet, then went to continue washing his hands. There still was blood beneath his fingernails.

"You know", said Knox lazily, standing beside the basin and watching him, "you somewhat overdid it. There was no need to nearly hack his head off."

He nodded without looking at Knox. Yes, that was right. He had overreacted. It had been stupid of him. Why behave like that, like a madman?

"Well, at least it shows you have some temperament." Knox laughed dryly. "Never mind about the mess. You'll know how to do it the next time."

Again he nodded, his hands and right forearm covered in grey soap. Nasty thing, but good enough to scrub all the blood off him. Was there still a bit left, between his fingers?

Now, now, he told himself, don't act like Lady Macbeth! You're clean enough already. He washed the soap off, mentally cursing the icy cold water that nearly made his fingers fall off by now. Then he moistened his forehead and temples a bit, cleaning off the sweat.

"Finished?" Knox threw him a greying towel, on which he rubbed himself dry. "Don't worry, nobody will be able to tell from your hands that you killed somebody."

I do hope so, he thought.

But will they read it from my face that I did something when I come back home?

He gave the towel back to Knox, and his eyes briefly met the gaze of his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. So this is what a killer looks like, he thought.

No, not a killer. An assassin.

If the cut on his cheek made him look dashing, the term "assassin" certainly did.

When he followed Knox out of the bathroom, he actually found himself smiling.