Wolfwood's just about accepted that he's going to need to beg for work in order to pay for his lunch (and, given the number of refugees milling about, chances are that nobody's hiring and he'll just have to be hungry for awhile) when somebody's duffle slides across the floor to park itself at the seat across from him. It's such an obvious, stupid start to a fight that he's quite frankly embarrassed for whoever it is -- they're gonna pretend that he tried to steal their stuff, and then try to shake him down for whatever he's carrying, it's pathetic -- but the man who rises from the table across the way, the man who sets his drink and lunch down on the table opposite Wolfwood, the man sitting right there, alive and hale... that's not a man.

His stolen gun is a comforting weight in the small of his back, but he doesn't dare reach for it. He doesn't dare breathe. That's Millions goddamn Knives sitting there in a pair of blue jeans, casual as anything. Helping himself to a seat like they're friends.

Wolfwood swallows hard, hands flat on the table where Knives can see them. Behind his own sunglasses, his eyes are wide with panic. Can you blame him?

"You're supposed to be dead."

Hi, boss.