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“You don’t know how to end something until you start something, right?” A half-sigh, half-chuckle falls from his lips as the man turns to gaze at the painting behind Jon’s head, “You want my story? You want to know how I ended up here in the fucking Institute while the end of the world is next week? Fine," He clips, resting his elbows on his knees and staring down at the floor, “fucking fine. I’ll give you my statement, Jon. But,” the man looks up, gray eyes sparking with a strange peculiarity, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Or a listener drops into the Archives.
