A deafening silence of reality. No blood on the walls, no flesh-filled byrinths, no one tearing you to shreds. Openly. The good old America. Hands trembling with the weight of experience, eyes weary from the endless fatigue. In my ears, only the haunting silence that I once despised now echoed as my salvation. I exhaled, feeling the reality's grasp on me once more, but it was not a release - it was yet another trap.

  I stood in Henry's room. His eyes, burning with the same fire as before, peered at me with curiosity, and in that fire, I could see the things I didn't like. His lips, like a dam, hardly broke through the silence:

  “What was there?”

  I had a lot of words, but they didn't gathered in response. His future lies in a mental asylum or a prison, that's what.

  “What was there?” he repeated, his eyes fixed, unblinking. He sensed that I was keeping quiet for a reason. But I wasn't going to be frank.

  “It is a pce you'd never want to find yourself in”

  Henry pursed his lips, catching the hint, and let it slide. He returned to his favorite invisible spot in the room. I no longer piqued his interest. And rightly so.

  At the threshold the maid retreated, revealing that she had been eavesdropping. Too obvious.

  "Now let's talk," I said, stepping toward her. "What was Longford hiding? He was working on some kind of project with someone, and Woodsworth was his trusty sidekick. At least something. If I crack the case, I won't be digging into your head.

  Her heartbeat quickened, as if she was about to burst.

  “I'd be honored to lend a hand, sir. Indeed, but I'm clueless,” she stammered, fidgeting with her apron. “Enter my mind, perhaps my subconscious will prove more useful.”

  I sighed. I didn't have the strength for another hell. But the matter was pulling me like concrete shoes from the best mafia stylists. I sat on the edge of the chair by the door. I crossed the revolvers on my chest. Zakhar and Danil were shaking in my palms, like hounds before a hunt. I closed my eyes. I stepped inside.