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[Sinclair knows exactly what's going on around the mansion, after watching the feeds, so he's gone and hidden himself somewhere in the mansion. His audio is on, but he's not saying anything - he can be heard walking, and on occasion smoking, but beyond that he's trying his best not to be found
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After watching some of the mansion's feeds she can't quite determine the full scale of this event, but it's enough to make her decide that now would be a good time to become temporarily unavailable.
She's carrying a few notes and books and is looking for a place to hide in order not to become an open book herself.
A few staircases later she finds an empty-looking room that looks appealing. She enters and closes the door with a sigh of relief-
-only to have that sigh turn into a shriek when she realises that the room is not empty at all.]
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[That covers the hiding part, anyway. As for why they both ended up picking the same room, well, the mansion is quite obviously a huge arse.]
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He walks by her and he doesn't even bother making an effort to hide his glare, not that he looks at her. It's very pointedly set forward.]
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm goin' t'find a corner'a the mansion that's a little more bearable.
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[Well, she said she wanted to give this control beyond questions thing a shot and now is as good a time as any.]
Sit down.
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Slowly, laboriously, he turns, every movement jerky and forced, and returns to his seat, his body slumping once he's fulfilled his command. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and threatening.]
What the hell d'you want.
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[Normally this is where she would stop, but the mansion encourages her to elaborate.]
I cannot remove you from the picture entirely, yet commanding you will suffice and I would like to know exactly where I stand on that.
[The moment she speaks the corner of her mouth twitches, her expression that of minor annoyance.]
You understand I would not normally be so forthcoming with details, but it seems the occasion calls for it and perhaps...
[This is where she produces a gun from her bag.]
...it will not matter much on the long run.
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His entire body is rigid, and if she were to look closely she'd notice him shaking slightly. He is terrified, eyes wide but still set into a hateful glare, and he's making no effort to hush that up.
After all, this is the woman who stripped him of humanity itself. What's the point of hiding it from her?]
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Take the gun.
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Slowly, ever slowly, he leans forward and takes the gun, shaking heavily as he leans back, the pistol in his lap.]
...Don't do this. [His voice is very quiet, and almost sad, almost resolute. He has a wicked flashback to not so long ago, these same words leaving his mouth in just as a horrible situation...]
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[Her voice is flat, not betraying, no, not containing any emotion. Make it quick? No, give him more time to resist... if he can.]
Put the gun to your head.
[Ah, nostalgia. Some numbers just never get old.]
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The tip of the pistol touches his head.]
Please.
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[She steps back once more, looking at Sinclair the way one might look at an artistic work in progress. She is pausing and if Sinclair were an optimist he might mistake the gesture for reconsideration, but in truth she is merely allowing him time to compose himself. For her there is no rush and if he still has any fight left then she wants to see it.
Another moment and whatever timer was set in her head is now going off. Time to cut to the chase.]
Pull the trigger.
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His finger tenses.
The trigger clicks, just before it truly goes off.
He looks up at her, and it's truly the last glance of a damned man - dripping with terror and desperate depression, as if somehow she'll, at the last minute, say "stop"...
But she doesn't.
The gun goes off.]
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When his hand pulls away her eyes narrow. She was afraid this might happen. So close and yet- but then the gun finds its target again and for the briefest of moments a smile crosses her lips.
CLICK.
And then it's all over.
She draws a deep breath and takes the unloaded gun from his hands, putting it back into her bag.]
Thank you, Mister Sinclair. That has been very informative.
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He's silent for a second, not even daring to breathe. Then he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tears fill his eyes. He doesn't resist as she takes the gun; his hand falls slowly, as if he's trapped in water, and he leans forward, breathing deeply again.
He isn't sure what to say. What is there to say? "Thank you for not actually forcing me to commit suicide?" Instead, he stays silent, staring at the ground with wide eyes.]
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