He stood overlooking a city. Its streets full of people. Men and women, their children. They wandered to and fro without so much as a passing glance for the man at the top of that building. It was an old theater, its vertical sign naming it The Majestic. He?d never been there before, never seen a single show. But then again, the theater wasn?t Morgan?s cup of tea. He wasn?t much for the arts. You?d think someone who spent as much time sitting, watching and listening could appreciate such a show.

The world was buzzing and busy, but here at the top of that theater it was quiet. The wind was the only true companion he had there, it ran through his hair and made his coat flick up and ruffle. His eyes closed and there was a beautiful silence there inside his mind. It was a rare occasion, but for once, he was his own person. He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket and it broke his reverie. With a grumble he grabbed it and checked the ID. Then he tossed it off the building.

Morgan approached the edge where the theater flanked an alley with a small gallery. The alley was empty, just a few trash bags and a couple of stray cats. No one would see, not for a couple of hours at least. His arms flew out to his sides and he embraced the wind and that moment of freedom that it gave him, just before he slammed into the earth below with a sickening crunch.

All at once the silence rushed away, replaced by noise. People buzzing about, cars, dogs, cats, birds. There were truck horns and squealing brakes. Laughter. But it soon faded and the silence set in once again as he lay there, a small pool of blood trickling from where his head had been partially caved in. It leaked from the corner of his eyes.

Darkness came. It was warm and inviting, he could feel it calling to him, the eternal slumber. Deep down inside he craved the solace that death would offer. He clawed at the darkness and begged that it would stay this time. He shouted for it, pleaded. It too faded, like all things, in time.

When he woke a man in rags was poking at him with the end of a gnarled staff of wood. He jumped as Morgan sat up, groaning. ?You alright, mister?? the man asked.

?M?fine,? he lied. He was far from it. Seventh attempt. He counted. ?60 bpm,? he muttered, standing.

?What?s that mean??

?My heart rate. It?s normal,? he glanced over at the man. ?You should get home, it?s late.?

Night had fallen on Rhy?Din. The buzzing streets were mostly empty, the cats in the alley had run off to find meals. It was just him and the old man.

You can?t escape me.

Morgan grunted.

?What?s that?? asked the other man.

?Nothin?,? he replied.

Morgan turned and stepped out into the street, touching his head. The blood was mostly dry now, but if he picked at it long enough he?d find some of it still sticky beneath that caked over surface. He needed a shower and a drink, maybe a smoke, too. To hell with quitting, at this rate he?d never die.

His room was a small, square space. The bed was a mattress on the floor, he'd dismantled the metal frame when he first took up residence at the inn. Scattered about the walls were pictures, newspaper clippings, strings of many colors all tying it together. It was a maze of evidence, information all linking together many men and many women, all of them monsters not unlike Morgan. They biggest difference was that they embraced their inner evil.

The frame of his bed had been fashioned into a series of bands along his door and window, makeshift bars of reinforcement. They were not strong. But the crucial few extra seconds he'd gain if attacked could mean the difference between life and...well, life without his evidence.

All the strings came to a single picture at some point. They pointed to a hollow looking man, a black and white photograph. He had high cheeks and a pointed chin, a prominent widow's peak and dark hair. His nose was hooked and he, like Morgan, was scowling. Underneath was a name.

Leo Bartosz.

A single, solitary strand of black thread went from Leo's photograph, held in place by a tack, up the wall. It stopped at the ceiling, in the center of an ouroboros painted there in red.

"Y'ain't the biggest monster out there, Leo," Morgan spoke to himself as he stared at the painting overhead. He was lying back on his mattress, arms thrust out to either side like wings. He'd been there since the night before, when Lenore went missing. He hadn't gone downstairs to see if she came back. Morgan, like most men, was more afraid of what might be than what was.

He heard something moving outside his door. A rustling. When he sat up a letter was waiting for him, the corner of it tucked beneath the door. He scowled and grabbed his gun. It had been lying on the floor next to the mattress. He gripped the slide and pulled it back, loading a round into the chamber.

Then he stood and walked over, staring down at the letter. He could read it from here.

I'm fine.

"Good," he bent down and picked up the single slip of paper. The corner where he gripped it started to smolder and burn, its edges blackened as a line of a tiny, orange flame crept along its surface. Within seconds it was a husk. He walked over to the window and let it fade to ash in the wind.

They sat in a diner around noon. Morgan was facing the door, seated in a booth made out of wood and a plush red cushion. The table was still damp from the latest wiping it received. Behind him sat another man who was going bald. He had thick-rimmed glasses, a scar on the left side of his face starting at the corner of his mouth and hooking up over his cheek. He had a smoker's cough and a scratchy voice. It sounded like an old record player.

"Smart move, gettin' outta there," he held a cup of coffee in his hand. He'd replaced most of it with sugar and cream. It must have been sickeningly sweet. "'Course you know that ain't gonna keep them safe. Long as you keep doin' what you've been doin', they ain't ever gonna be safe."

To the rest of the diners it appeared as though this man was insane. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, he didn't so much as turn to look at Morgan. He spoke in a hoarse whisper between sips of sweet coffee and the occasional french fry.

"You know...you go anywhere near 'em and it'll be the last mistake you ever make," Morgan promised. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, too. The steam was still rising, but faint. He hadn't taken a taste of it yet, nor did he intend to.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sharp edges of the table.

"How 'bout you just tell me where I can find Leo an' we make this all go away?"

The man behind him laughed. It was a raucous sound, harsh, grating and all traces of mirth were absent. It dissolved into a rough sounding coughing fit. The man cleared his throat when done and sat up straighter, as though attempting to regain some of his dignity after displaying a weakness.

"An' here I thought you were smarter than that, boy," the tsked his tongue at Morgan. "Leo's above my pay grade, Wright. I'm just a messenger. He's onto you, knows you got that woman in your pocket an' knows where to find the others. He doesn' know how you ain't dead yet, an' he don' care. Stop. Ain't many folk who get this kinda offer from him, worked in this business most my life an' ain't ever heard of this kinda shit. You'd be dumb not t'take it."

Morgan stretched his arms out to the side. Then, slowly, he reached behind him. Before the man could register what was happening, Morgan jumped to life. His arm curled backward in a painfully akward way and looped around the man's neck. He slid aside and pulled, yanking the man straight out of his seat so that he'd slam down onto his back in the spot next to Morgan. He dropped his coffee and spilled some of it on his shirt. Morgan picked up his own untouched mug and tilted it. A trickle of the hot drink landed on the man's forehead and he cried out. It wasn't so much pain as it was the surprise of it all.

"You gonna get this one chance t'tell me where he is, Monte. Tell me where Leo's holed up an' you can walk away with your life."

"Shit!" Monte cursed, a series of increasingly profane exclamations followed. "He'll f***in' kill me, you know that! Don' be stupid, Wright! This is a good f***in' deal he's givin' you!"

Morgan smashed the ceramic cut over the man's face. The coffee splashed into his eyes, burning his skin and Morgan's hand. Now, Morgan held a shattered cup with some very sharp edges. He wielded it like a knife, tucking the tip under the man's soft jawline.

"M'gonna count t'three."

Around them, the diners stared in shock. The waitress approached but seemed too terrified to do anything. Someone was hiding beneath their table and calling the Watch.

"One."

Monte squirmed, howled and protested. Not unlike a disobedient hound.

"Two."

"Listen," Monte's stranglehold on Morgan's wrist was released, his hands held up in surrender. "I don' know where Leo's hidin', but I can find out. I swear on my life!"

Morgan considered this plump, balding man for a moment before accepting his terms. He dropped the broken cup on the table and let go of Monte, who started to slide from the bench and onto the floor beneath the table. Morgan stood and dropped some bills on the table, then he set a phone down.

"There's only one number in here, Monte. You can figure out who it belongs to. You got until Sunday."