The flashbulbs erupted around his head. His fist strangled the briefcase handle. Caplan could no longer leave his house without a train of paparazzo scum tracing his existence through the dirt. A body had turned up in his bathtub one morning and his life progressively unwound. No conviction for a lack of proof but still they hounded him to the edge of misery. Blockading his city homes. A mother dead from stress. His divorce on the wreckage of her funeral. His descent had become the spectacle itself.
They swarmed him on the subway carriage just like he knew they would and for the first time he welcomed their presence. The windows up and latched and no escape for what would feel like forever. What the doors would open to would be enough for ten articles. Sarin is odourless yet fast-acting. And there would be no-one left to photograph a thing.
