Jim had found himself an empty office to sit in, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He hadn't bothered turning the light on. He only needed to think.

He stepped in, knocking lightly on the doorframe. "Harrison is being prepped now, sir. Is there anything else you'd like done?"

He didn't move. "No," he said, calmly. Some part of his brain was trying to remind him that he could lose his third within the next hour, but he was steadfastly ignoring it. "I don't think there's anything to be done until we know."

He nodded a little and turned to go. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I won't, not until the surgery is done. One way or another," was all he said in response.

He nodded and left quickly. Jim was unnerved, and that was, itself, unnerving. He took a slow breath, in and out, before heading back to Lorna's room to wait.

Lorna had been rolled into the surgery theater, muttered one little prayer/swear under her breath, and then the anesthesiologist arrived and she was put under.

She came to, panicked.

Her eyes weren't really cooperating with her just yet - probably something to do with that light, good god, so she took a moment to assess why she was feeling this way. Had she forgotten to turn off the stove? Why was her heart racing so?

She blinked, forcing her eyes to focus past the blinding white light - on... blue. Baby blue. Little squares of it. Surgical masks.

Oh no.

She felt something shift inside her chest, and she screamed.

Moran was watching. Had observed every move from the corner of the operating theatre, dressed in the same blue scrubs (which barely covered his large frame, short at the wrists and ankles.)

Her scream was one he had heard before, and one he never wanted to hear again. The mix of agony and terror usually brought on by torture.

The surgeons leapt into action, crisp orders flying about complex chemical names that even his trained ears had trouble following. That may have been, however, because his eyes were locked on her face- rent with terror- as she started to thrash on the table. He didn't hesitate, just leapt up and pressed through the crowds his hands finding her shoulders and holding her down. "Harrison," he barked, his tone an order which brokered no argument. "Hold still."

It was a struggle to even process what Sebastian had just said to her, let alone obey, her lungs hyperventilating of their own accord, panicked breathing around the oxygen tube down her throat, nails scraping against the metal of the table, another, rougher movement in her chest, and she couldn't help it, had to move, arched off the metal slab, shouting, panting, trying to get a hand free to wrench the tubes out of her fucking trachea, and failing that made a fist in the nearest thing it could find - one of their shirts, balled up in her violently shaking hand - the only thing keeping her from fighting them tooth and nail was the surefire knowledge that it would only make it hurt more, and she felt like there was a fucking alien in her chest cavity.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but he wasn't surprised when she kept thrashing. A note of panic was entering the voices around him, now. He pressed down on Lorna's shoulders more firmly now, keeping her pressed against the operating table. Suddenly one of the surgeons stepped forward and started pulling the tube out of Harrison's throat as fast as he could, trying to clear her airway. The lead surgeon was doing the same with the camera line, while assistants injected painkillers and held the struggling, screaming woman down.

She gagged on the tube, coughing uncomfortably, ineffectually, and then it was clear and she took in a gasp of air. The oxygen helped to clear her head a little - and she was fairly certain she was probably going into shock anyway, so things were now just a little farther away, just a little quieter, and she could feel the cold oozing up her IV arm. Oh good, they were trying to put her out again. She didn't know whether or not she was still screaming, couldn't tell over the ringing in her ears, but then it didn't matter. She passed out.

She went slack, and everything went silent. Only two things kept Moran from grabbing the scalpel and cutting the throats of everyone here. The first was the knowledge that there would be no one to replace the doctors, isolated as they were. The second was the solid rhythm of Lorna's heart monitor.

"Would someone care to explain," he said with dangerous calm, picking up the scalpel for effect anyway, "what the fuck just happened?" A snarl entered his tone.

"I can discuss it once we have her stitched up," the head surgeon said, his voice still strained, and one of the quicker-thinking nurses handed him the tools required. "Until then, I think it's best if I focus. Please, don't get in my way, sir."

He had to reevaluate the risk-reward of gutting the man then and there. Instead he stalked out of the room, the door slamming behind him. He was powerless in that room. But here... two steps later he had an unfortunate lab tech in his grasp. She screamed for all of a third of a second before he rammed the scalpel through her jugular, pinning her to the wall with it and killing her instantly. He grabbed her hair to hold her up and removed it almost all the of the way, only the tiny blade still embedded. He pulled it downward, then, splitting her skin open wide from neck to pelvis, before removing the scalpel and slicing the same line down her face, meeting with his first. He traced the whole line twice more until he severed muscle tissue and her bowels came spilling out, and then he let the body drop. He was splattered with blood over the scrubs, hand dyed red.

He stepped back. The room around him was eerily silent. He tossed the scalpel on top of the body almost casually, and went to the observation window of the operating theatre, watching calmly now as they stitched Harrison up.

Five minutes later the surgeon came back through the doors, pulling off bloody gloves. He froze as he saw the mutilated corpse on the ground, but this was a man who had worked fifteen years stitching up the worst of the criminal world, and doing the occasional autopsy on them, so where a normal man might have puked, he instead only felt cold deep in his gut, a warning to be cautious and quiet. He walked into the observation room, and pulled off the surgical mask. "Mr. Moran. I just had some blood drawn for testing, but she seems to have woken up mid-surgery from an inexplicable surge of adrenaline. It wasn't too little anesthesia. Three of us were in the room when the dosage was agreed upon, and none of us thought twice. Once the footage from the camera is downloaded and the test is back, we'll know more."

He nodded, offering a bloody, gloved hand to the surgeon calmly. The man hesitated, but took it, shaking. Moran didn't let him pull away, gripping his hand so tightly that the man winced.

"I just wanted you to know," he said, still gentle, "That right now I'm considering cutting off each and every one of your fingers, and sewing them back on backwards. Now, I'm not much of a surgeon, but I'm sure that after three or four fingers of experimentation I'll have some sort of system." His grip tightened. "But maybe I won't have to learn. Maybe you'll impress me with the best goddamned work I've ever seen. What do you think?"

In that moment, the surgeon was very aware that this was the most dangerous man he'd ever stood in front of, and he nearly lost his lunch. "I'll impress you, sir."

He nodded, releasing the man's hand and motioning for him to leave, before walking into the surgeon's showers to rinse the blood off and change.

When Moran got out, the surgeon was waiting. He too had changed, but much more hastily. He had a folder in his hand. "Sir. I was correct on the sudden surge of adrenaline in her system. We haven't had time to get a tech analyst down here to review the footage, but to our eyes... The pod releases something as the camera approaches. I suspect it's a sort of defense mechanism. Removing it will be difficult, if it is sensitive to metals."

He took the files, looking through the notes and the stills from the video. He nodded his agreement. "Theorize. I want possible solutions in an hour." He handed the file back. "Where is Harrison, and when do you expect her to wake up?"

"She's back in her room. She should wake up in the next half hour," he replied, checking his wristwatch. "My team and I will be working in the meantime. See you in an hour, sir?"

He nodded, waving a dismissal and going to find Jim.

He knocked in the door of the darkened office. "Sir...?"

"She's alive, then. I suppose it's some comfort that the surgeons here aren't seamstresses in disguise," Jim drawled, sitting in the dark corner, his back against the wall. It was more comfortable for him. And he knew that no one besides Moran would find him. "How did it go?"

"Horribly," he said, stepping in and closing the door. "She woke up when the probe was half a meter into her chest. Preliminary theory is that the device had a proximity detector which released a shot of adrenaline when the probe breached the perimeter.

He muttered a half-formed swear, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. "Get the tech department, see if they might have some sort of remote to turn that off. I'd prefer to stay under, when it's my turn."

He glanced at Jim with a raised eyebrow. "You understand that as your bodyguard, I can't authorize a surgery this risky, not until we understand it further, correct?" he asked.

"Of course I do, Moran," he snorted. "I haven't lost my mind. Doesn't mean mistakes can't be made in the future."

He nodded just slightly. "Very well. Then unless you need something, sir, I'm going to check in with Harrison personally."

Jim just made a slight wave with his hand, already returning to his thoughts.

He ducked out soundlessly, and headed for Lorna's room.

She lay on her bed, looking pale, bandages forming a small lump around her chest beneath the thin sheets.

He sat down to wait, watching her quietly. He dared to hope that she wouldn't remember, but luck hadn't exactly favored them lately.

When she awoke again, it was with less panic. But her breath still caught raggedly in her throat, and she tried to sit up immediately, and regretted it. She thumped back onto the bed, eyes screwed shut, a hand going to chest, clutching the blankets just below the bandages until her knuckles were white. "That wasn't a dream, was it." She said in a strained voice, taking a shuddering breath through her nose.

He reached out a hand to her shoulder when she tried to move, not catching her quite in time. He put his hand over hers. Her skin was hot against his. "No, it wasn't," he said softly. He leaned forward, wishing that he could just bundle her up into his arms and keep her safe. "I'm sorry..."

She nodded a little, in acknowledgment, because she couldn't quite summon up any words at the moment. Waking up to find people in her. As if she needed to add vivisection to the list of things she had nightmares about. "What happened?"

He took a long, slow breath, letting it escape through his teeth. "The mechanism has a proximity sensor," he said quietly. "It sensed the camera and released a flood of adrenaline into your system. That's what woke you up." He looked at her hand. "But they're working on a solution. I've made certain that they're properly motivated."

She nodded again, and swallowed. It hurt. Her already vomit-abused throat was now rough from having a tube yanked out of it. Christ, how many more operations like that would she have to endure before this was all over? Anything they wanted to try, they had to try on her. Jim wouldn't undergo the surgery first - that was insane. "So they still don't know what's wrong with me."

He gripped her hand a little tighter, then let go before he hurt her. "...No. But they got some information," he said gruffly. He sat back, hand finding the arm of the chair. The wood creaked beneath his angry fingers.

"Calm down, you're giving me proximity anxiety," she snorted, opening her eyes and looking at him. "I'm worked up enough for both of us."

He looked at her for a moment, then took a slow breath and nodded, forcing his hand to relax. As helpless as he felt, she was more so. This, he could do. He closed his eyes, gathering himself, and when he opened them again he was a sniper, calm and collected. "They're doing their best. That isn't going to happen again. You aren't going to wake up like that again."

"I better fucking not," she muttered, lifting her hand from clutching the blankets to rub her eyes tiredly. "Things I wanted to avoid in my lifetime: vivisection-nightmare fuel."

He nodded his agreement. "I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. We're going to fix this." He didn't know what else to say. What else did he have?

"Can we relocate to my quarters? I hate infirmaries. It's not like they're doing all that much for me here," she sighed, looking around the stark blue walls. "You can dress wounds, and they can always visit me. I rather dry heave in comfort. Oh, that's going to suck with stitches. Ask them to give me something anti-nausea."

He nodded. "I'll tell them to give you something. As for relocating... No. It's too risky. We have no idea what is going on," he said firmly. "I can bring you things from your room if you like, but if something goes wrong, the extra three minutes from your quarters to here is unacceptable."

She sighed, but didn't think about arguing. He wasn't going to budge on it. "I don't need you to bring me anything. I just... didn't want to be here."

"Neither do I," he sighed. "But neither of us has a choice." He glanced at the door, and then stood up and closed it, drawing the curtains over the windows. Then he walked over and sat down again, this time a bit more relaxed, a bit more exhausted. "Damn fishbowl," he muttered.

"They've got to have a room without windows. Especially for us," she grumbled, glancing at the curtains. "Fuck, this sucks. Can I just have a normal six months? For once? Goddamn."

"They have a room," he snorted tiredly. "Jim is in it, sitting on the floor with all of the lights off. I have decided to leave that alone for the moment."

"Fuck that shit. He has his own office to sit in if he wants to. Where's the phone? I'll text that son of a bitch a picture of my fucking stitches," she grouched, trying to root around the nightstand without twisting her torso at all.

He reached out to grab her hand. "It's an office, not a medical room, you couldn't be there anyway. I was kidding," he said quietly. "And he's still Jim. I know you aren't afraid of him, but that doesn't make him any less lethal. Don't be afraid of the wolverine, certainly. But respect that it can still rip your throat out. You'll live longer."

She gave a bitter laugh. "Seb, I'm probably the safest I've ever been from Jim. I'm the only guinea pig he has. He kills me, and he's the one who has to undergo every new thing the surgeons come up with. For right now, he'll deal with my shit," she chuckled, lacing her fingers through his.

He rolled his eyes. "You don't think he's capable of holding a grudge? Look, I know you have no sense of self-preservation, but do me a favor and don't blatantly piss him off for me, okay? One of us in his sights at a time is plenty."

She made a face at him. "Leave me alone. I'm too tired for reason. M' groggy as all hell. What painkillers did they give me, in there?"

He smiled as she groused. Fighting spirit was good. Then he sighed. "No opiates. I was very clear on that subject," he promised. "Acetaminophen, combined with some topical numbing agents. Unfortunately the options are rather limited."

"That's fine. As long as it's anything but opiates," she shook her head. "I don't need to trigger the already-still-kinda-there heroin craving."

He nodded a little. "I understand. Anything else that I may not have thought of?" He ran his thumb over the side of her hand.

"I don't know," she sighed, rubbing at her eyes. They felt crusty. "Just - ask them if they have a room without those fucking windows, yeah? I'm not keen on being observed, either."

He nodded a little, standing. "I'll speak with them. Are you sure you don't want anything from your flat? A book or something?"

She gave a weak shrug. "I haven't lived there that long, Sebastian. It's not really... mine. There's nothing there I'm attached to."

He nodded a little, and left without any other comments, going to see about finding out about a windowless room. He glanced at his watch. The surgeons had thirty-two minutes.

The surgeon found him again with five minutes to spare. "Sir, I have a proposal prepared for the next surgery."

He looked over from his discussion with a nurse about accommodations for Harrison, waving the woman away. "Oh? Do enlighten me."

"We assume the pod has a metal detector. Otherwise any injury could have killed her, traumatic or not. We'll take it out, or at least examine it, with ceramic tools. We don't have everything we need here, but we can send for them. It will be an invasive surgery."

He listened quietly, though the muscles around his eyes tightened just slightly at the last sentence. "What are the risks?"

"There's the risk that the pod has a more dangerous fail-safe than just inducing an adrenaline shock to the system," the surgeon sighed, "But I can't know without having it in my hand. And there's also the risk that the fail-safe could be physical instead of hormonal. It's... located very close to her heart."

He took a slow breath, considering that. "I want you to run every scan you deem safe before the operation. Ultrasound if you can manage. Take more x-rays if that's all you have. Get someone from tech down here to take a look at it, and I want a tech defusal specialist standing by during the actual procedure." He considered for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Get this done as quickly as is safe. Hell knows what this thing is doing to her system."

He nodded, running a hand over his dapper silver hair. "Doctor Shelby has concluded that what's happening to her isn't like the adrenaline, it's not hormonal. He's beginning to run more exotic tests. Parasites, for instance. We should know by tomorrow."

He nodded. "Delay surgery until those results come in at the very least," he decided, then turned to go.

He took a quick self-evaluation as he walked back to Lorna's room. He was exhausted. Fatigue was setting in. The few hours he'd gotten hadn't been enough. Still, he wasn't going to sleep until he was sure Harrison was stable. The immediate solution was caffeine and food. He barked an order as he passed someone in the hall, and sent whoever it was- intern or surgeon, he didn't particularly care- scampering for coffee and some sort of sandwich.

He entered Harrison's room quietly, closing the door behind him softly in case she was sleeping.

She shifted tiredly, cracking her eyes open to see who was coming in. She was pleased to see it wasn't another nurse. "Hey," she rasped.

"Hey," he said, shutting the door behind him soundlessly and walking over to sit in his chair. "So I have good news and bad news. What do you want first?"

"Bad news," she sighed. "I rather end the conversation with a silver lining."

He nodded a little. "They need to do invasive surgery to deal with this thing," he said quietly, evenly. "They don't know what else it's capable of. But, good news, they know what triggered the thing, and they have a plan for dealing with it. It has a metal detector, so they're going to use ceramic surgical tools to prevent it from triggering again." He reached out to take her hand in his, absently spinning the ring on her third finger. "And the specialist is looking into what might be causing the rest of your symptoms. They've eliminated further hormonal issues as a possibility."

"Jesus. So I'm going to have open heart surgery nine months after they scrubbed all the scars off me? Fun shit," she muttered, eyes on her hand in his. She was glad she didn't have to go through this without his support. "I better not wake up again..."

"You won't. Not until you're supposed to," he said quietly but firmly. "As for the scars, we can get that one fixed too. I'm rolling in money, remember? Not an issue." His tone made an attempt at playful, but fell slightly flat.

"I guess it's an excuse to go back to India," she joked weakly, squeezing his hand. "We can finally be the serial killers we always wanted to be."

"Hey, speak for yourself," he snorted with a small smile. "I've been a serial killer. Remember New York? Two percent crime increase." He smiled a bit and gripped her hand. "You feeling alright?"

She snorted. "I feel like I haven't slept in three years. I'm just... Worn out. My throat hurts. My chest hurts. I don't know."

He nodded. "Alright. Try to get some sleep, then. I'm going to see about getting a spare cot in here so that I can get a couple hours, too."

She laughed softly. "Sebastian, you can sleep in the flat. I can survive being alone for six hours."

He eyed her suspiciously, then shook his head a little. "I want to be here if anything changes." In truth, it was more for him than for her. There was no way he would be able to sleep in the flat, uncertain if at that very moment she was coding, and he was about to receive an urgent phone call. Or worse, an exhausted, defeated one. He stood. "Get some sleep. I'll be here." He headed for the door to see about a cot.

She just made a quiet, sleepy sound, rolled over, and passed out a few seconds after he had left the room.

He had a cot a few minutes later, and fell asleep before they had even brought sheets for it, sprawled out with his hand closed around the space where the knife under his pillow usually rested.

Ten hours and another inconclusive test later, and she was undergoing prep for surgery again. She went under with bated breath. Who knew if she would wake up again.

Moran was in the operating theatre again. Jim was missing in action, but he wasn't concerned. The boss had been pacing the small room he had been in like the madman he was. It didn't surprise Moran that he had disappeared.

His focus now was on Harrison as she went under again. What if this was the last time he ever saw her?

He took a slow breath, the heat of the exhale accumulating beneath the surgical mask. Don't you fucking die on me.

The surgery went well at first. They cut through her sternum alright, though the surgeon had gritted teeth over the bonesaw - they'd been banking on the fact that a ceramic blade would be good enough, in order not to set the pod off, but the mechanical workings of the saw had to be metal. But it went alright, and the doctors let out a collective sigh of relief.

Once inside her actual chest, they all just took a minute to consider how best to remove the pod, now that they could see it with their own eyes. That was about the time things went wrong.

The surgeon had her hand inside her chest, fingers around the pod. They'd determined it wasn't fixed to her by any discernible means. The doctor pulled. And this time, she was the one to scream.

At first, no one knew what the fuck had happened. Sebastian took an immediate step forward, body tensing, ready for- what, exactly? What could he do, here in this room of instruments he only vaguely understood, observing a procedure he understood even less. He was suddenly homesick- or something akin to it- for the simplicity of roofs and his sniper rifle.

Still, he stood there, expression revealing none of his emotions, stony and unmoving as always save for his hawkish gaze, following everything.

The surgeons, nurses, and technicians, however, were suddenly in a tizzy, trying to evaluate and respond to whatever had just happened. No one was panicking- they were far too experienced for that- but not a millisecond of time was wasted.

A second surgeon- a man- stepped in to help the first, who was clearly in pain. The man and woman both worked around the woman's right hand, which was suspiciously unmoving, but hidden from Moran's view by the lip of Lorna's chest cavity.

He stepped forward slightly, but it still took him an endless four seconds to even begin to understand the situation. He attributed the slowness to the fact that- in the red, liquid, pulsing, complex mess that were Lorna's internal organs, it was nearly impossible to see the foreign blood.

Once he saw it, however, his stomach dropped.

The surgeon's hand had been carved into by a wicked-looking curved blade, with jagged, serrated teeth. Blood was pouring through the carefully applied triple-layer of gloves, into Harrison's body. A nurse had stepped forward with a sponge and bowl, and was doing his damndest to contain the substance, but there was only so much he could do.

Sebastian tuned into the chatter around him, absently filtering in the information. The blade was a spring-trap of some sort. It had been aimed to slice through Harrison's heart, but had instead caught the surgeon's hand on its way. It had grazed the heart, though by some miracle it hadn't punctured it. Removing the surgeon's hand ran the risk of letting the blade continue its course. To complicate matters, the blade was barbed like a fishhook, and firmly embedded in the bone of the woman's hand. Removal would be traumatic, and possibly introduce further foreign matter to Harrison's already-weakened body.

The majority of personnel were now all crammed in around Lorna's chest, half of them working on the lead surgeon's hand, half of them working on limiting the damage to Lorna's body, mopping up the blood that they could see and assessing what could be done about the nick in her heart. "We're going to have to take the pod out to proceed," one of the nurses attending to the surgeon said in a strained voice, and someone made a rushed noise of agreement. There wasn't a benefit to waiting. Only more damage would be done the longer they waited. But nobody seemed willing to make the first step, in case there was a second trap.

He looked around at those gathered, saw the hesitation, and made his decision. There was a time for intimidation, for orders. This wasn't it. He stepped forward, shoving people out of the way with his shoulders until he was at the table, ignoring protests. He held out his gloved hands. "I'll do it," he said calmly, locking eyes with the lead surgeon, daring her to hesitate further. "Tell me what to do."

"Take out the pod," the surgeon replied, voice relatively steady considering she had a blade embedded in the bones of her hand. "I need to stop bleeding into her. If it has a second fall back trap, there's nothing we can do about it right now."

He didn't object, just reached in, closing his hand quickly and tightly around the device. If something went off, he wanted it contained as much as he could manage in his grasp, and not in Harrison's body. Nothing happened. He nodded to the surgeon, and started lifting slowly, the surgeon moving her hand with him to prevent further injury. They stopped short less than an inch up. "Something is tethering it to her rib cage," Moran said, voice unwavering. "Someone get a look, figure out what it is and how to deal with it."

The nurse that had stepped back to give Moran room squeezed forward again, bending down to look into Harrison's chest cavity. "There's a wire attached to her Inferior Vena Cava. It looks like it's looped around. I'm going to need wire cutters," he said, standing back up and looking towards the nurse whose job it was to hand other people tools. "Do we have those in ceramic?"

The woman nodded, already in the process of handing over the necessary tool. "This is the only set, though. Nothing smaller."

Moran had gone stalk-still as the man had spoken, suddenly grateful for his steady sniper's hands. Christ, it was around her vein? Knowing Mycroft, the wire would tighten with pressure. Good job he had been going so slowly, and that the surgeon beside him had had the good sense not to just yank her hand out when injured. Lorna would have bled out in a matter of seconds. Don't sneeze...

The operating theater was still a whirl of activity, keeping Lorna alive and unconscious, but his focus was on the nurse, who was using a mirror for reference as he carefully slid the wire cutters into place. He held his breath, there was a quiet snick that Moran imagined he could hear over the din of beeps and urgent orders, and the nurse withdrew. "You should be clear. Move slowly."

Moran nodded, and lifted again, at a snail's pace, the surgeon once more lifting her hand, her face pale with pain and shock.

The instant they were clear, someone was putting a bowl beneath the device to prevent further contamination. Moran set the device into the bowl, and stepped back again, fading into the wallpaper, his eyes on Lorna as the team seamlessly moved into repairing her injured heart.

One of the nurses kept back from the team, shifting to flip open the metal of Lorna's medical chart, smearing it red. "Someone get me Dr. Chakrabarti's blood type, now. If she's not Type O, we're going to be experiencing problems very soon."

"I'm not," Chakrabarti called from where she was sitting in the corner, a nurse working on disabling the spring of the pod. Her voice was strained and hoarse, but determined. "I'm A+. We're going to see a transfusion reaction. Monitor for warning signs of renal failure, hypotens- augh-" she broke off as the nurse shifted the pod at her hand, apologizing. The other surgeon took up where she had left off without blinking.

"Hypotension, renal failure, and DIC. Those are our concerns right now, people. I want plasma on standby, we may need to make an emergency transfusion."

There was a bunch of rushing about as the surgeon stopped speaking, and the operating theater went from being relatively still to bustling. "Mr. Moran, I'm going to need you out of my operating theater, please," another surgeon said as he passed, pulling off his bloody gloves to exchange them for new ones, to keep things sterile. "We'll alert you as soon as something happens. You're only slowing me down."

He wanted to argue. To point out that while they'd all be standing around with their carefully-gloved thumbs up their asses, he'd been the only one to step forward and do anything.

But any second wasted could cost Harrison her life. He left without arguing.

He showered and changed as quickly as he could, hardly paying attention. He walked over to the operating theater observation window, but being able to watch but not interfere was worse, he found, than not knowing at all, and he quickly left, entering the hall and starting to wander aimlessly.

Put your money on me
If you think I'm losing you, you must be crazy
All your money on me
I'm never gonna let you go, even when it's easy

- Arcade Fire - Put Your Money On Me -