It's almost pitch black -- white light from orbiting Arabrab scatters tiger stripes across the large office, and it wavers strangely under a puff of smoke from the corner. The embers from the cigarette are muted but still there, and the moonlight shows half of the owner's face, illuminating one striking blue-and-silver eye. Whatever his reasons for doing it, he's waiting now.

The door opened without so much as a whisper, permitting him through with a weary, though accomplished look on his face. "F****n' tie wearin' mummy's boys.." Once he'd tossed his satchel onto the desk, along with the drycleaner bag holding his tuxedo, he fell into a chair and eyed the corner. His left index finger curled in. "'Ow's the underworld doin', Alain?"

A smoky chuckle rose from his lips, and the Baron slunk across the room to the desk of the spy boss. "Seedy... Volatile; but I was hoping to hear it from you, and H. mentioned you were sitting on something." He scattered ash into a tray on his desk with a careless flick. "And I figured I'd give the morning edition a skip, and get my news fresh. Who pasted those blogs on my bar?"

"Oh, yea, somethin' righ' interestin'. Y'remember 'ow all those papers'd been from 'round the time'a tha' Moretti bloke?" Shaw didn't give the Detective the time to answer, let alone blink. "Well, our first edition girl Morana's been lookin' into Moretti's boys. Lot more than I'd give a hard workin' girl like her credi' for, if you know what 'm sayin'." A cigarette was procured and lit, flaring to life against Shaw's bristly jaw.

"Enough to confirm that Cain was a marionette?" Alain turned his head suddenly to Shaw; in the low light, the unseen frown was still heard. This was quite the revelation.

"Y'could say tha'. She's a little too close t'be the puppeteer ?erself, I think. Too many specific tasks, if y'ask me. She's been lookin' int' th' Noirmon' gate, as well. Few other assor'ed 'Ouse ventures." He looked up, with a flat gaze in the dull, orange glow of the cherry. Too bright to be a common brand. Must?ve been one of the flashy ones you'd have to buy out of a West End specialty shop.

Wouldn't be unheard of -- Shaw's sharp eyes, in a different light, might spot the faint grey runes scrawled across Alain's rolling papers. Smoke rose in a sudden fury as he spoke again, and his tone rose. "Noirmont? Why the Hell..." But even as Alain said it, he knew; that's why he trailed off, and why a grim smile grew in place of his serious frown as he stepped over to the window. His right hand ached and the nerves tingled when he rested it against the wooden frame, a constant reminder of that battle. "...Jesus, Shaw. Brilliant work." He waved his cigarette in a slow sweep of his arm. "The whole thing... Moretti, now Morana, and God knows who or what else in between, maybe even the Marketplace bombings... and I know only one person who'd take such a keen interest in the House sending a lowly wizard through the Noirmont Gate..."

Then he swept across the room, light flooding in as he opened the door. He paused there and looked over his shoulder at Shaw, eyes strangely alight: "Call everyone, I know how late it is, and I don't give a damn. Throw together a meeting, and give S.P.I. their new orders... The Architect's been pulling the strings all along."

Something manic contorted Shaw's face for a moment, twisted and bunched up his fingers; hands tight. He was all smiles. "Shi's hi' th' fan, then. Ye've got i', Boss." With a plume of incandescent smoke shimmering glumly on its way up to the ceiling, Shaw pulled his phone out and began dialing. "Expec' t'be back in an hour. Grab some Chinese, will ye? 'M f****n' starvin'."

Dedication at its peak.