"Let's go home," you reply. "Get our stuff together and get outta town."

He looks a little dejected. He was retaining a hope that after today he could go back to his normal life. The suspension of panic that had lasted since he first found out what you really were had taken a toll on him. And now he's faced with the inevitability of never seeing his local friends again, having to find a new job somewhere, having to constantly worry about being stabbed in the back. But at least he'll be alive longer than a few hours.

He drives with a subdued urgency back to your shared apartment. But it's clear from a few blocks out that something is wrong. There are flashing lights, a gathering crowd. Smoke.

The car has slowed down and he's staring at the scene, mouth agape. Without even turning to look at you, he softly intones, "What now?"