"Maybe things were fine and nothing happened because it wasn't that far along," he says, and he stops, just for a moment, to brace his hands against the surface of the desk but he can't stand still not for a moment so he gives himself a brusque shake and yanks the gun out from its hiding place, pinned between his waistband and the back of one hip, and sets it on the desk with a quiet click.

"But it is now. I thought it was me. I thought I was the source." He's not, but what he is now isn't much better. Max is stepping on eggshells around him.

She's scared of him. Or scared for him. Both reactions are equally pointless.

"But I'm not. I'm just the thing trying to contain it. But I can't do that if I'm still spreading it around."

That's why the endpoint is inevitable. He knows what he has to do.

He'll put the gun to his head and it'll be done.