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Dmitri Kollontai is dying. He is alone, hooked up to a ventilator, strung out on his bed, gaunt and ghostly.

Dmitri has had a long life. He does not especially care that he is soon to be gone. Dmitri simply mourns he was not able to take pleasure in his little games any longer.

For that's what Dmitri thought life was. A game. An opportunity to have fun. Because Dmitri fucked with people. Meddled with their lives, interfered and infiltrated to cause as much suffering as he could, before moving onto the next one—and he reveled in it. Perhaps that's why he got on so well with Isaiah Cartwright, when they met back in the '40s. Though after Isaiah died, he found it more and more boring. Until one day it became more fun to mess with SPRHD itself, and so he left.

As for all Edith, Jules, Alejandro—they were all mildly diverting. Just another game for him to amuse himself with, wiling away the time before his inevitable demise.

An email, a new auto-reply, blinks out on the desk in his room:

Friends. It is with great sadness to report that I am ill. The doctors tell me I'm dying. So be it. I have had a long life. It has been rich, and full of joy.

I apologise for nothing. What I did, I did for myself, and myself alone.

So, за здоровье, friends.

I shall see you all in hell.

When the seizure takes him, Dmitri is alone. But as he loses consciousness, as his body wracks and writhes in its final throes, he still just finds it all so funny.

Life is all just one big joke—and we're all the punchline. Why did people always struggle so much to see this?

Dmitri Kollontai dies in ecstasy, laughing at the world.