The Outsider is laughing at me.

That is the first thing I think when I see that little rowboat. I've known for a while now that Corvo was coming for me. I never thought he'd be delivered on a silver platter.

That black-eyed bastard had mocked me. For a man like you, he told me, you went through Coldbridge Prison with an awfully light touch.

And now an enemy I have feared to face for weeks arrives at my doorstep. Weakened, poisoned, and barely conscious.

Smart money would be cutting his throat right here.

"Sir? What do we do with him?" Thomas asks me in a low voice.

And I can't do that, can I? Outsider knows why, but I can't. The bastard's sure to love this. He's always liked to watch people sow the seeds of their own destruction. For a man like me, Void willing, that's the closest thing I'll ever get to due process.

"Take him up to the distillery", I gesture. My words come out more tired than I meant them to. My mind's already mapped out all the ways this can end badly, but by the Void, I can't seem to do anything more decisive. We have the Masked Felon, and escaped convict Corvo Attano, murderer of the Empress - hah! - in our custody. If we won't kill him, the least we can do is collect the bounty. And that means one of the makeshift cells in the distillery, converted from empty vats. None of it is pretty, but what choice do I have? Let him walk free, and hope for the best? No. At least this way, we have some measure of control over him.

I hear the Outsider's laugh in the back of my mind again.

Corvo has slipped into places better-defended than Dunwall Tower ever was, six months ago. Over the course of little more than a fortnight, he has turned from prisoner to the most feared man in Dunwall, and taken down its most powerful men and a woman. That sorry excuse for a cell in the distillery won't keep him locked up. Not once he's recovered, and it doesn't matter how many men I put on that detail. I've seen the mark on his hand. I can only imagine what he can do. I have no hopes of keeping him under control, mad of me to even consider it.

He's coming after me. The only question is how many of my men he'll cut through in the process.

"Wait," I say, and my men halt. Vladko, who's hauling Corvo into the railcar down by the water, looks up at me askance. "The distillery's no good. Take him back to the compound."

Thomas stares at me, his expression as incredulous as the mask will allow "...The compound, sir? You mean the base?"

"Last I checked, we only have the one," I say dryly.

There is a beat of silence. You could hear a pin drop, but it's the Flooded District. So the only thing you hear is the groaning of a Weeper, somewhere downriver.

Thomas hesitates, but nods. "Sir." The other Whalers follow suit, but not before exchanging glances. I can already hear the whispers they'll be trading later on, how poor old Daud's finally lost the last of his wits.

I'm not so sure they're wrong.

There are worried mutterings, and Thomas reassures them, just barely within earshot. He speaks to them with quiet confidence. "The master has a plan, as always."

I'm not so sure he's right.

Better come up with one, then. And fast.

Beneath the surface, it doesn't sound so mad.

I know Corvo has a score to settle with me. Whether he'll extend his grievances to the rest of my merry little band, who can say? I can send those of them not needed around the compound away, to scout and patrol the grounds. Corvo has a score with me, though. It seems only courteous to make that as straightforward as possible for the both of us. Get it over with, as they say. Don't make the poisoned man go through the trouble of wading through half the Flooded District to look for the man who killed his Empress in front of him, and made him watch.

And besides, what better way to know when he has regained his strength than to be right next to him when he does?

I keep trying to tell myself it makes sense. It speaks to the madness of the idea that even Thomas voices his objections. Thomas, who has never questioned me, not even over the maddest of undertakings. Not even when I told my men we would be killing the Empress.

Maybe he should have.

"This seems dangerous," he mutters. He and I are watching as Vladko gingerly settles the Unmasked Felon onto one of the cots, no restraints. Corvo has passed right out again, unable to hold onto consciousness for long.

"Losing your nerve, Thomas? Haven't you heard what they say about keeping your enemies closer?"

"Sir, I do not believe they mean that literally."

I have no answer to that, only a dry chuckle. Vladko has draped a ratty blanket - one of our nicer ones - over Corvo, and now he steps away. Corvo looks worse than before - when he had that spark of recognition, of seeing me, briefly giving him strength. When I was considering tossing him into the distillery just to put some distance between me and that gaze. Now, his skin is pale and clammy, and that sickly smell of rotten pear on his breath is stronger than before as his body works through the poison. Thomas nudges a bucket closer to the bed, and I nod my approval. Creature comforts. Nobody can say we weren't hospitable to the man who wants us all dead.

If Corvo fails to make it through the night, then fate will have solved this problem for me in one fell swoop. Of course, I should be so lucky.

Vladko returns with a loaf of stale bread and a pitcher of water and sets both carefully by the bed. His task is done, so I step forward for the finishing touch.

I hold the box with Corvo's equipment in my hands. A handful of bolts and traps, a pistol, an exquisitely-crafted crossbow, that intriguing folding sword. His mask. I leave the box open and set it down, very deliberately, not too far from the bed. Not so close that it will be immediately within reach, but not forbiddingly distant. If the eyes on my back weren't incredulous before, they are now.

The message is clear, I should hope. He's free to kill me and take his best shot, but there's no rush. No rush at all. No reason we can't exchange a few words first.

"Have someone stationed in the room and watching him at all times. Tell me when he's awake for longer than it takes to puke in that bucket. Do not engage," I tell them. I turn my back and walk away, and try not to dwell on the feeling of crosshairs on the back of my head.

Half a year ago, the ever-present din of treacherous whispers from my men would have bothered me a lot more. None of that seems to matter, now. If one of them decides to put a knife through my back, as Billie meant to, they'll only be cutting short the slow agony of watching my fate descend upon me, like a whaling ship coming ever closer to the cliffs. I might even thank them for it.

So let them try. In the meantime, I will lead them as far as I can.

With any luck, I will have figured out what I'm going to say to Corvo by the time he wakes.

I return to my study to pace its lengths like a caged animal.

It's a gamble. I'm counting on the sanity and cool reasoning of a man who has been wrongfully imprisoned, sentenced to execution, turned into an assassin by circumstance, and betrayed several times over. My only hope is that the sheer stupidity of such a move will disorient him enough to buy me a little time. That we can have a proper conversation before we try to kill each other.

A conversation about what? I'll figure that out in a bit.

Corvo is a mystery, for sure. What drives him now? Is it revenge? Or is he still, on some level, seeking to protect the Empire his Empress left behind, and keep her daughter safe? Help her ascend the throne, out of some sentimental notion that royal blood on the throne will lift the curse that has shrouded this city?

I'm missing a piece here, and it is not for lack of effort. I've had my men watch him as much as they dared, as the Masked Felon prowled the streets of Dunwall. He's killed his targets without fail, but it's been clean, for the most part. No collateral damage - indeed, those who were not his targets barely even saw him. It's anyone's guess whether that restraint is a result of moral scruples or some professional principle.

I suppose I'll find out soon enough.

I pop the seal on a decent bottle of whiskey, just in case I don't get another chance. I sink restlessly into the chair and sit for a while, uneasy, sipping the whiskey without tasting it. One way or another, all roads must come to an end. I just didn't quite expect to have this much time to contemplate it, when it came.

In the meantime, I turn on my audiograph. Maybe this will help me make sense of my jumbled thoughts.

I'm glad for Brigmore. If what happened at the manor is all I leave behind, then so be it.

I am ready.