She gives a sharp nod and slips back into the shadows, watching his back as he works through the lock. She wants to do more, wants to kick the door down, break it open for him, leads the guards away herself. But there's that hum in the back of her mind, more noticable now that it's been made so obviously wrong by his presence, that won't let her. She should be grateful, she should be loyal, she should complete her mission.

And when the lock is done, open, she dashes off, hoping that she can hold out long enough to buy him time.

The trophy room is dimly lit, raised plinths and alcoves with spotlights providing the only real illumination. And many of the things in them, put on display, York would recognise. Tex's helmet, the visor fractured. Maine brute shot hung up like something in a hunting lodge. Armour, the purple of it scuffed and scratched. A morbid, obsessive collection of things that had once been his life.