[ He's hanging there, staring down at the river below. Four fingers cling to the edge of the Langdon Brdige, feet dangling free. His cloak whips wildly with the wind - there's the spray of water, occasionally. It's cold. The snow keeps falling. He's cold. Too cold and too tired to respond to his name, to Hadrian. How does Hadrian always find him? Hadrian always gets him before its too late.
But it is too late this time. Royce doesn't look up. ]
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But it is too late this time. Royce doesn't look up. ]