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side aching from the blast he’d fired from his still-holstered pistol. His vest was scorched, and the hole through his coat smoked faintly, but he was glad to see he hadn’t shot off any of his own important bits.
    He sat up, inhaled deeply, jammed his fingers in his ears to work out the heavy dullness, took stock of his surroundings. The flexiglass cube was frosted opaque from the impact of the round that had torn through Fedor, but the walls were otherwise intact. In one corner lay the agent, broken by Fedor some time before.
    Unnecessary, Three thought. Excessive. A waste.
    He fished around in one of his coat’s many pockets, and drew out his remaining stock of shells. Down to six. With practiced fluidity, he flipped open his pistol’s three-chambered cylinder, and replaced the spent shell with a fresh one. He dropped the empty in another pocket, where it jangled with others he’d fired before, each eagerly awaiting a refill, though chances for that were getting increasingly slim. A sharp flick of the wrist snapped the cylinder in place, and Three slid the pistol back into its now-charred holster.
    He stood, shaking his head, and set to searching for a way to get out of the cube. None of the devices that still blinked or whirred seemed to have anything to do with the door. The agent’s cluttered desk was likewise no help. He flipped switches, pressed buttons, stomped, kicked. After twenty minutes of scouring to no avail, claustrophobia began to settle in. Three realized his breathing was short, his jaw clenched. He forced himself to sit. Propped up on the agent’s desk, he tried to relax, told himself he’d find what he was looking for, that he wasn’t going to die in a box. At least, not this one. He took a deep breath and held it.
    That was when he heard the scratching.
    It was quiet; rhythmical, methodical. Someone was working the other side of the door.
    Three crept cat-like from the desk, half-crouched on the floor, eyes darting to reevaluate his options. For all the clutter, there was no real place to hide, no solid cover. He improvised.
    As quietly as he was able, Three dragged Fedor to a corner, where he lay down and rolled the giant corpse on top of himself. He shoved his arm under Fedor, leveled his pistol at the door. Waited. The scratching continued, intermittent but determined. Minutes stretched.
    Three’s fingers began to tingle, nerves revolting against Fedor’s dead-weight pressure crushing down into his bicep. He rested his head on the cool marble floor, chastised himself for choosing this corner of the small room, where eyes would undoubtedly fall first. The collapsed pile of hardware was the better option. The confusion of the electronic debris, coupled with Fedor’s ragged form, would’ve bought precious seconds of advantage. Too late now. Three hoped he’d outlive this mistake.
    He’d know soon enough. Finally, the door whirred, thunked. Three raised his head, just so his left eye could see over Fedor, finger tightening on the trigger. The door slid open. A tiny figure stood silhouetted at the entrance and quietly gasped. Wren. Cass appeared, saw the carnage, reflexively slipped her hand over Wren’s eyes. Too late. The little boy wouldn’t sleep well that night.
    Three was relieved. The shock of Fedor’s damage had bought him the advantage after all. Cass only just now noticed him. He pushed Fedor off and sat up, holstering his pistol and massaging his arm. Cass turned Wren around and pushed him gently outside the cube. She returned, locked eyes with Three. For a moment, neither spoke.
    Then, finally.
    “How long…?” Cass started. She closed her eyes, swallowed, tried again. “How long have you been here?”
    “Longer than I’d prefer,” Three answered. He got to his feet. “Sorry your boy had to see that.”
    Cass opened her eyes and nodded, though what she meant to communicate with the gesture wasn’t clear. Three watched her for a moment, noted the throbbing vein in her