You are now Jack Noir again, and to put it lightly, you are bored out of your fucking mind.
Just sitting and waiting on the sidelines has felt like an eternity. Not like there's any real way to pass the time. You're behind the eight-ball here, fully wrapped in chains, hands tied behind your back and under constant surveillance from a Jane who has the means to fry you like a rat gnawing at a live wire if you even sneeze wrong. Got no material to read, no one to bump gums with, not even a lousy goddamn cigarette to take a load off. Or a loaded gun to put you out of your misery, for that matter. You're not picky.
Now, you've tortured a lot of fellas in your day. But you'd like to think you're magnanimous enough to spare even your worst enemy from the insufferable agony of this distinctly Prospitian bureaucratic waiting game.
Maybe.