"You're not the first person here to say that," Polya muttered.

He raised his eyes.

"Of course. You imagine yourself some kind of artist. Never imagining that someone could be more than your canvas."

Pale faces beneath the sheet.

"I understand too well. I've been shown. I've seen the aftermath of the work of your kind."

A listless smile cracked his lips.

"Maybe you yourself. Moscow is large but the world is small."

His arm was entangled with the murderer's as if they had paused in the middle of a mad dance.

"Tell me that, then. What are you becoming?"

He jerked the gun at the killer's heart, just enough to admonish.

"Is there any reason not to end your life here and now, besides not giving you the satisfaction?"