He's waiting for it to occur to him that he's taken it a step too far. Waits for something like guilt or pity to break the patina of ruthless emptiness balled up in his chest, waits for something to jag his chest with the tang of adrenaline and a hot swarm of motes to jitter beneath his skin.

It never does.

"Do you still have my sidearm, Director?" he asks, quietly. "Do you still have a full mag?"

Carolina returned without it. He didn't ask where it had gone, or what she had done with it.

He didn't want to know.