He knelt on the ground in front of his master, eyes downcast and submissive. His body was clean, his hair combed, and he was dressed in a nice suit and tie - the kind he would've worn in a previous life. But he didn't notice. He didn't care. He just felt...empty.

He didn't know how long he had been with his master now. Maybe a month, maybe ten years. He didn't keep track anymore - what was the point? He wasn't looking forward to anything; there was nothing in the world left for him.

His master had ground this into him from Day 1, and through lots of...not-so-humane methods, he had learned to accept it. He was nothing. His master was everything. He served his master willingly, doing whatever he said, even as something niggled in the back of his mind, telling him that what he was doing was wrong. Now the niggling had faded away, and he was left...empty. There was nothing there - no feeling, no life, no snarky comments.

He stood when his master placed a hand on his shoulder, but he still kept his eyes downward, showing respect.

However, this time his master tilted his face upward to look into his cold, dark eyes.

"Today will be different," he said with almost solemnity. "I feel that I have no use for you anymore."

The boy nodded, expression blank. Then, his master reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jar with several holes in the lid. Inside the jar was a large honey bee, flitting around angrily, trying to escape from its prison.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" his master purred, shaking the jar a little as he saw that his trained slave still kept his expression blank, uncaring.

"One little sting with this bee, and the bee dies." his master continued, studying the bee inside. "I know also that one little sting, and without an EpiPen, you die, too."

He was amazed by the blank expression on the boy's face, as though he didn't even care that he was obviously about to be stung by the deadly little insect by his master.

And truly, the boy didn't care. Not anymore. Once, in a time that seemed to be in a whole other life, he vaguely remembered being stung, on a terrace maybe, overlooking a bright city. A kind old lady had found him and he'd gotten the injection in the nick of time. He remembered his fear of dying then, but not now. He had nothing left to live for, so why fight?

His master was a little disappointed by the young slave's lack of response, but he continued anyway.

"Aren't you even a little afraid, boy?"

It was deathly silent as both waited for the response. Then the boy whispered humbly, "No."

So the master sighed and then gave the his final instructions, the ones that would lead to his death.

Giving the jar to the boy, he said, "After I leave the room, shake the jar, and then remove the lid. Let the bee sting you, and then you will be free."

After a moment, the boy nodded and wrapped his hands around the jar.

As the master left the room, he knew that his slave would do it. He was loyal, and he would follow through on his orders, down to his very last dying breath.

The young slave watched as his master closed the door behind him. He would obey. He had to. He would be loyal to his master, all the way to the end.

He looked down at the jar. After shaking it rather violently, he unscrewed the lid.

He felt the sting on top of his hand, and dropped the glass jar on the ground. It didn't shatter, just a little piece chipped off of it. He heard the clatter of the metal lid falling to the hard wood floor as though it was from a far distance, and as though in slow motion, he crashed to the ground, legs suddenly weak. It was getting harder to breathe. He felt lightheaded, dizzy. He blinked, and it seemed to take longer than it was supposed to, harder than it usually was, to open them back up. He glanced down at his hand. It was blurry, but he noticed that his hand was clenched tightly, puffy as it was. He became vaguely aware that it was clenched around something, but he couldn't remember what it was.

He felt strangely peaceful, fearless, as the black spots started to cloud his vision.

No one was going to save him, but he was okay with that. He was okay with dying. No one would have to deal with him anymore, all of his hair-brained cons or snarky comments or irritating fedoras and Devore suits. No one would notice his absence, except maybe the odd little man with glasses, but he would soon move on. The world would go on, and there would be one less Neal Caffrey in the world.

Then, as though from a far distance, he heard banging and shouting. One voice, one familiar voice, rang out among all of the voices, and it made something come back to Neal as the voice shouted:

"FBI!"

And then Neal stopped breathing.