The situation on the other side of the glass hasn't yet reached dire, but Wrench feels an unnatural lack of urgency at the prospect of seeing another man's life taken from him. When the stranger searches out a writing utensil capable of overcoming the soggy conditions inside, Wrench actually rolls his eyes. What a shame, he thinks sarcastically to himself. The man could easily die, trapped in that little office building, with no clear way to communicate his last and final thoughts. Wrench crosses his arms in front of his chest and takes a step back, giving himself a wider vantage point from which to examine the slowly-forming message.

Copy the code? He scowls at the pages pressed to the glass and gives a brief shake of his head. I don't see a code, Wrench signs to the man, not looking nearly as apologetic as circumstances may demand. He adjusts his gaze to the stranger's wide-eyed expression, the desperate pleading. How many times have men begged him for their lives? How many times has he obliged?

Still, the choice was never his before. Wrench considers this and feels a sudden surge of power. The ability to call the shots, to make the decisions, to actively save a life... it all suddenly feels so tremendous to him. So he squints again at that page and tries to make sense of the strange symbols, to recall the patterning of their strokes.

Hold on, he gestures with a finger to the man, begging his patience before moving to the back of the building. The panel is easy to spot, and Wrench makes to pry it open only to find the rainwater has made the surface slick. He grabs again to force it from its hinges and feels the rush of wind and the shadow of a sudden movement at his back. Whipping around, he finds that nobody's there.