Vance, in death, through his own distrustful nature, had testified against his own murderer.

On the screen, timestamped to fourteen minutes past nine in the evening, Marcus Vance sat at his desk in the pool of light from a single lamp, alive, unremarkable, working late the way successful men work late, with no idea that he was living the last minutes of his life on a recording no one was supposed to ever see.

Then, at the edge of the frame, the office door opened.

A figure stepped into the room, dressed in heavy dark clothing, hands covered by leather gloves.