Having unlocked the right locker this time, Illya reached inside the darkness and fished out a small, translucent plastic bottle which once contained prescription drugs. The agent flipped the lid open and unfolded the paper that was rolled inside. Despite the haste in which the message had been written, Illya recognized Napoleon's careless handwriting forming two puzzling words: 'Sorry, Illya.' Expecting enemy company behind him, the Russian turned on his heels and instinctively reached inside his jacket for his gun and froze expectantly, his senses on alert, unable to recognize any immediate menace. A slight odour of medicine reminding him of his sojourn at the training center in Russia lingered to his nostrils.

Ether.

Feeling drowsy, Illya traced the vapours to the plastic bottle still craddled inside his hand. Survival instinct took over the agent's mind and, with heavy movements, he dropped the container in the closest waste basket and headed towards the exit to inhale a bit of fresh air. Like a nightmare where the body stops responding to the mind's will, Illya felt his legs slowly roll under him. His arms, then his chest, then his head heavily dropped against the cool marbled floor. Somewhere, the familiar buzz of the station and the impersonal silhouettes faded away in a gray cloud of smoke invisible to the travellers who came and went to their personal destinations, oblivious to Illya's inert form on the floor.

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