Joel is gone. Probably back with mister Hersh, speeding off toward Windbridge. So, Waylon stands alone in a hallway of arched ceilings and doors. In front of one door in particular; where Joel left him.

Staring down at the hooked door handle, he runs his thumb over the textured grip of his revolver. How long have I been standing here?

It's odd. The trip here, the ride up; the whole time, his chest burned. Each step closer to Albert, another log for the fire. But now? Not even an ember. Cold.

"Second thoughts?"

It's her voice. Gina's from long before, just like at the aquarium. He closes his eyes. He can almost feel her hovering over him. Phil, too. Their ghosts both judging him.

Without another moment's hesitation, Waylon grits his teeth, opens his eyes, and barrels through the door.

The room is not what he expected. No leather-bound volumes, no mahogany. Instead: tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows; dark walls; a single, round table that could use another chair. Albert stands to the table's side, looking out onto the city below. Ridiculous teal suit, sleeves dangling from their elbows and collar flaring like an orchid. They tweak their neck, drawn by his raucous entrance.

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Mock surprise plays over their face; convincing enough for someone who doesn't know any better. They yank out a chair. "Oh. Good, you're finally here. Not a moment too—"

Waylon rips the revolver from his coat pocket and levels Albert's head within its irons. "You won't be needing a seat."

They raise their hands, more shrug than surrender. "If it helps, this one was for you. I'm not that... Well, I suppose gauche would be the right word."

"This isn't about a chair."

"Obviously. As I said, I'm not that gauche."

"Then tell me. Before I pull this trigger, tell me in plain words exactly why—"

An impossible voice calls from his left. "Waylon Ishii! Dear God, what do you think you're doing? Put that away before you hurt somebody!"

Waylon grits his teeth. No. Focus; it's just your imagination.

But, for some reason, Albert ticks their head in that direction like a clock's jammed second hand.

Another trick. That's all.

Her voice comes again, dripping with the vile tone of a disappointed mother. "Waylon. Put it away. Now."

His heart twists; the temptation — it's too much. Careful to keep his irons centered on Albert, Waylon tweaks his neck just far enough to catch something out the corner of his eye. Someone. A figure atop a bed.

His arm goes slack and the revolver dangles at his side.

What?