(Location: 1418 Plaza of Great Men, The Edge, Al Amarja, Earth. Time: 2357 
Greenwich, April 17, 1996) 

In a mostly-dark room in a second-story apartment in The Edge's worst district, a 
very nervous man was hard at work. Most who saw him would assume at first that he 
was some sort of exterminator or cleaning man, simply from the way he was bent 
over to the floor, carefully doing.. something. On closer inspection, however, 
the theoretical observer would notice in his hand a paintbrush, its tip covered 
with a silvery substance. 

Of course, there were no observers. The room was carefully protected against such 
an event. At least, so the man believed. 

"Good evening, Isaac." 

The man suddenly stopped in his tracks, although he did not straighten up. "Mr. 
Rajpol." 

Out of the shadows before the man stepped another figure. Unlike the nervous man, 
this man carried himself with utter confidence and, perhaps, something more. His 
name was not Rajpol, but that was the only name Isaac Soukhanis had ever heard to 
refer to him. 

"This is a wonderful sigil, Isaac," said Mr. Rajpol. "I have no idea what it 
does, but I am certain that it is truly splendid. Is this true?" 

Isaac struggled for a moment, then exhaled the answer. "Yes." 

Rajpol smiled coldly. "Of course. I would expect no less from an artist of your 
caliber. Really, it does my heart proud to see what wonderful things you people 
have done with what we taught you.. or rather, what we taught you to figure out. 
But still.. drop the brush, Isaac." 

The brush clattered on the ground before Isaac could decide not to, although Mr. 
Rajpol made no other move. 

"Now, Isaac.. have you anything to say for yourself?" 

Isaac carefully lowered himself further towards the ground, into a genuflecting 
posture. Behind him, one of his feet quietly hooked itself around the strap of a 
rucksack. "No, Mr. Rajpol. None except to ask your mercy." 

A knife clattered to the floor in front of Isaac's face. "Denied. Cut your 
wrists." 

Isaac reached for the knife, but managed to stop himself from taking it. Mr. 
Rajpol frowned. 

"I said Cut Your Wrists, Isaac." 

Isaac slowly, shakily reached for the knife and unsheathed it. Slowly, he began 
to draw it across his left wrist. 

Then, with a sudden motion, he brought the knife to the floor and drew a thin, 
shaky line of blood between two points. The patterns on the floor flared with a 
silvery-red glow, and Mr. Rajpol took a step back before a burst of red light 
mingled with a black fog filled the room. 

When the light cleared, the room was empty.