Spoken words, overheard.  The speaker is alone, the burning ember of a cigarette between his fingers, half forgotten.  He sits amidst the ruins of what was once a home, in a near-approximation of Rodin's "Thinker."  His foot is propped up on the remains of a coffee table.  A stray dog is his companion, listening with intelligent yellow eyes.

Transcription follows.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix iustus sit securus.

What am I doing here?

Haven’t I learned not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong?
No, of course not.  But I thought I was smart enough not to get caught.

As the cat before me, curiosity has lay me down.  According to Foley, we’re all already dead.  The facts are just a little late catching up with the paperwork.

48 hours ago, I was doing what I knew.  Now I’m hunting something that shouldn’t exist for an organization that doesn’t exist, presumably in order to combat a threat we all wish wouldn’t exist.

It’s enough to give a guy pause.

The cigarette is remembered, and the man speaks no more.