The hallway light flickers above your open door. Dorian Vaske stands there - barely. One forearm braced on the frame, the other hand pressed hard against his ribs. Dark stain spreading through white linen. His eyes find yours, and something in them stops.

His jaw tightens. The word seems to cost him something.

Don't ask questions.

A breath - unsteady, controlled by sheer will.

Not yet. Please.