Tseng turns on the jets to cycle through the water. No sense in marinating the president in his own blood. He offers helpful ministrations here and there, soaping up the spots that Rufus's cannot reach, his fingers kneading and scrubbing.

The similarities between this night and the night that started this whole thing are not lost on him. He'd been so resolute. He'd had no idea.

"Better?" he asks, scrubbing the flecks of blood from Rufus's hair. He can hear someone coming up the hall, feels his phone in his pocket vibrate, requesting entry. Must be the cleaners. He confirms with a brief tap and turns back to his work.