The door suddenly slams open, bouncing on its hinges and hitting the wall just like he'd done to her door so many weeks ago, the only difference being the dent is smaller— and Luther's at his desk, suddenly jolting away from his boxy laptop like he's been caught doing something wrong, looking at something he shouldn't. An irrationally guilty look flashes across his face, because he'd just had enough time to read that latest message, to catch a brief glimpse of it before Allison came barging in. Fuming in his doorway like a stormcloud.

He scoots back in his rolling chair, hands away from the keyboard. Looks up at her, as his own version of realisation clicks and tumbles into place. He'd recognised Five already, tipped off by that casual mention of the Murder Magician, but he hadn't known—

"Hey. Allison," he says, abashed, and it— isn't an answer. Because he can't lie. He can't lie to her anymore (she can always tell), and he doesn't want to, either. Even about this.