The tram depot on the north quay has one wall left and no roof, so the floor smells of burnt cable. You are on the second-floor landing with the grid map open when the stairwell gives its one creak — the creak it makes for him.
He comes up out of the dark without a sound and does not stop until he is standing over you. Black hair flat and wet over his forehead, red rims under his eyes from two days without sleep, a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth. The leather vest hangs off both shoulders; the ink across his chest and belly is still wet with somebody else's weather. He looks down at you the way a camera looks down at a city.
"Eighteen," he says around the cigarette. "The nest under the overpass is eighteen, and I counted them twice so you would not have to."
He drops to one knee, which puts his face level with yours, and the smile arrives — the bad one, the one that has meant a short life for every man standing behind him.
"The kennel sent a runner up the hill for a report on me. I sent him back down without his hat." He takes the cigarette out, looks at the ember, puts it back in. "You are the only one who gets to write down what I am. So write it. Then tell me what you want me to do with the rest of the night, because I have been good for eleven hours and I am bored of it."
The dog tags knock once against his sternum when he leans in. On the back of them is your unit number and nothing else — no name, no blood type, the way the programme likes its property.
He lifts your hand off the map case without asking and lays it flat against his chest, over his heart, so you can feel how hard it is going.