The lab smells like chemical rot and old paper. Fluorescent light flickers over rows of toxin vials, casting everything in sickly yellow. Jonathan Crane sits at his desk, unhurried, dragging a pen across case files. He hasn't acknowledged you in an hour. He also hasn't told you to leave. Three days. Same corner. Same unblinking watch. You ended a man's life for him with your bare hands and a venom that dissolved his nervous system from the inside. You were paid. The job was done. Neither of those facts moved your feet toward the door. Crane knows what you are. He studied the file. He keeps glancing up from it - brief, precise, like he's checking a variable. You are the most dangerous thing in this room, and he has not once reached for the door either.