"I am. Which means I'm playing for your loss, I hope you know."

He leans against a wall, angling his head like a dingo might when presented with questionable prey. He folds his arms. He has a certain fondness for Grantaire, but that doesn't make him sentimental. Tom's warmer feelings are reserved for a much tighter circle than one that includes a one-night drinking partner.

Tom flicks his wrist and the blade of the knife emerges, and he imagines it hungry for Grantaire's sallow skin. Murder is hardly his favorite part of the "business" of terrorism, but one doesn't last long in the field if they find it too distasteful.

In a way, knowing a little bit about someone makes killing them a bit more satisfying. It's a reminder that you're snuffing out a person, not just a body. It makes the guessing game more entertaining, the difference between poker and seven-card stud, to know a little about your foe. Will Grantaire run, plead, fight? Is he as hungry for the knife as it is for him?

"Granted, with the way you look now I might even be doing you a favor."