Crowley wakes slowly, drifting reluctantly into consciousness. He stretches and, rolling off his makeshift mattress, he pads over to the window. First up, and the sun is rising outside.

The sky is the colour of blood.

Crowley barely makes it to the bathroom before he starts to throw up.

He didn't eat much yesterday - or at all, really - and so it's mostly dry-heaving, until he's left gasping for breath that he doesn't need, and clutching the edge of the sink. He looks up into the cracked and dusty mirror. He looks the same as always, he thinks, but there's a familiar and unpleasant voice in the back of his head, and it almost, almost sounds like it's coming from his reflection.

You regret it, don't you? say his reflection's eyes.

Well, yes. It's probably a good contender for the title of 'most disgusting thing ever'. And, really, I thought I had more self-control than that.

Not what I meant. You're sorry you did it.

No. No. Abigar is dead, and I am glad.

Perhaps. But you wish you had not killed him. The reflection's gaze is far too knowing.

No, no, that's not true.

You're going soft, Crowley -

- no, I'm not, I don't regret it, I don't -

- you're going good.

No...