Elijah takes a breath. Anyone who actually gave a damn about convering the passing of a great artist will have followed the funeral party. That leaves the jackals.

"No," he says, then straightens his lapels and eats up the distance to the front door in long, confident strides.

There are instant camera flashes. He hears his name multiple times. Mister Kamski - Sir, can you comment on - Have you been in contact with - Were you aware of - Elijah!

Markus is facing similar barrage, but Elijah isn't listening any more, making for the cab he's already summoned with a tap on his phone. His heart is beating too fast; there's sweat beading on the back of his neck. He's spent too long in the controlled silence of his own home.