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Napoleon stops looking at Illya, because that just makes him want to put his foot through the wall, and looks at his gun, which isn’t difficult, because it’s about an inch from his face, and this close he can smell the faint sweet spice of cleaning oil. Instead of looking at Illya — the lines of him held in anticipatory stillness; the bulk of him in the blue half-light — Napoleon looks at the balance of gun and silencer, the heavy slide and the curl of Illya’s fingers on the grip, the angle of his thumb, and waits.