"Cassandra" by Theatre of Tragedy, from Aegis

He peels away the yellow tape that the police left behind. The door opens easily, and the smoker accepts its silent invitation, stopping where the midnight sun casts shadows in the form of the two chalky outlines.

The man who died was a generation younger. His wife, a fragile brunette beauty, was a pianist. He vaguely recalls that the couple was afraid to have children, terrified of the inevitable future that would paint their fate in dark colors. How ironic that the young man continued to work for the new world order, ensuring the future he so feared.

There are scarlet spots on the creamy white keyboard. A sheet of music is still spread open, its sounds cut forever. A metronome still beats a steady drum. Its monotony is ominous, its motor more permanent than that of the living body.

Ash falls on the floor as he takes another drag on the cigarette. Nicotine is healthier than the smell of death.

Methodically, he opens drawers and looks over the bookshelves, searching for any sensitive documents. When he finds a safe, nit-picked and swept clean, the wrinkled fingers unconsciously start to beat the same drum as the metronome, one, and two, one, and two, as his apprehension grows.

The rules of the game have changed, but he was not informed.

"So what did he do?"

Krycek's voice is nonchalant. Today, the older man envies such carelessness. This blood was shed too close to home. "I valued this man."

Krycek circles him slowly. He wears the same expression as the man the smoker met on the steps of Lincoln Memorial - mistrust born from loss of control, anger born from inability to prevent the unseen hand from taking more lives.

"People have been dropping like flies lately," Krycek muses cynically. "Just tell me, am I next?"

He points to the ransacked safe in lieu of an answer. "How much does the information cost these days?"

Krycek's snarl obliterates his human features, transforming him into a creature of the jungle, fear and defiance in his every move. The smoker waits for the claws to come out, but the young man regains control before new blood is drawn.

"I know you have warned Mulder to leave the city."

"I only hope he took my advice to heart."

"The question is," the smoker asks ominously, "how did you know to give it to him?"

There is a pause, and in the ensuing silence, the drum of the metronome has a resonance of the upcoming disaster.

"Is he alive?" Krycek asks coldly.

"He is alive."

The young man backs out of the room, carefully sidestepping the bloody footprints. Abruptly, the smoker reaches out a hand to turn off the metronome and silence the dried-out heart of this home.

For the sake of their mother, he hopes that Mulder and Samantha are not the next targets. Rarely does he feel so helpless or paranoid.

The echo of the drum follows him to the street.

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