Logan is led into a dreary wooden classroom, on the top floor of the building. It appears to be some sort of old, unused, science lab room. Long, wooden lab benches stretch all the way across the room, lines with sparse rows of rickety stools. The windows are dark from the sky beyond, and the room is lit by flickering overhead lamps, that swing unsafely from chains that are bolted to the rafters. There's a line of cabinets on one side of the room, likely full of beakers and droppers and scales, along with empty chemical stock basins, and enough blades to please a butcher. But every single cupboard in turn is secured shut with a large rusty padlock.

"Well, what do ye think?" The floorboards creak and groan unhappily under the cab driver's feet. "You like it? Up to you, you're the one who's gonna die here."

"No, I'm not." Logan says, instinctively.

"Mhm, that's what they all say." The driver's tone is teasing and malicious. He moves into the room with a confidence that makes it feel like Logan's trespassing on his domain. The cabbie moves to one of the far lab benches, and pulls two stools to sit opposite each other, like setting up a game of chess. He rounds back, and sits on the side that's closest to the door. He folds his hands in front of him, and without even looking back, says: "Sit down, Mr. Holmes. Let's have us a little chat."

Logan considers the offer for a moment, knowing that he can very well run right back out the way he came with the driver's back turned like this. But he doesn't. Instead, he crosses around to the opposite side of the lab bench, and takes a seat, calmly. He folds his hands neatly on the surface in front of him, mirroring the cabbie. The detective looks around the classroom, as if admiring the architecture.

"Bit of a risk, isn't it?" Logan asks, voice echoing slightly in the large, mostly empty laboratory.

"Hm?" The cabbie peers at him over his slim glasses.

"You took me away under the noses of about a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And my landlord will remember you."

A silver eyebrow is quirked, and the driver's expression looks like he finds Logan's statement laughable. "You call that a risk? Nah. This," He's taken a little glass pill bottle from his pocket, and sets it down on the table between them. It's only about the size of a shot glass, and only holds a singular red and white gel cap pill inside it. "Is a risk." He finishes.

Logan frowns, staring at the bottle in confusion. Not understanding.

"Oh, I like this bit." The cabbie says. "'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But, you're about to. I just hafta do... this."

He puts something down next to the pill bottle on the lab bench. His hand clears, and he reveals a second, identical bottle, with only one lonely pill revolving slowly on the bottom. Logan's eyes flicker quickly between the bottles, trying to process this. They're the same in every detail.

The taxi driver's tone is condescending, and his crinkle at the corners with entertainment. "Ah, weren't expecting that, were you? You're going to love this."

"Love what?" Logan asks, glancing up from the bottles.

"Logan Holmes, 'ere, in the flesh! Just look at you." The cabbie sounds like he's enjoying himself quite a lot. "Y'know that website of yours, your fan told me about it."

"My fan?"

"You are brilliant, ye are. You are a proper genius. The Science of Deduction. That's proper thinkin'." The cabbie leans forward, and his breath is rancid. "Now, between you and me, why can't people just think? Doesn't it just drive you mad, that people don't just stop for a second and think?"

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too?" Logan quips, and his stool wobbles unsteadily as he leans back a bit.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man, driving a cab. But, you'll know better in a minute. Chances are," The man sneers. "It'll be the last thing you'll ever know."

Logan just looks at him, sour. His gaze slowly lowers to the bottles on the table. "Okay, so two bottles. Explain."

"Well, it's simple, really." The man says, adjusting each of the bottles in turn, just so, so that the two are perfectly in line with each other. "There's a good bottle, and there's a bad bottle. Take the pill from the good bottle, and ye live. Take the other, and ye die."

Logan lowers his head to be eye level with the containers. "And the bottles are, of course, identical."

"In. Every. Single. Way." The man antagonizes.

"And you know which is which."

"'Course I know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if ye knew. You're the one who chooses." The cab driver nudges the bottles forward a bit, towards the detective.

"Why should I choose? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Logan asks, gears turning in his head like clockwork.

"Ah, ye see, I 'aven't told ye the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill in the other one. And then together, we... take our medicine."

Logan looks genuinely surprised.

"I won't cheat, it's your choice. I'll take whichever pill you don't." He smiles at him. Demonic, malevolent. "Didn't expect that, did ye, Mr. Holmes?"

Logan stares down at the bottles, and the two of them stare right back. They glisten under the light of the yellowing lamp overhead. They cast reflective shadows across the table, that sway back and forth alongside and in time with the lights. "This is what you did? To all of them? You just gave them a choice?"

The cabbie dips his chin in a sort of nod. "And now, I'm giving it to you. Take a moment. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"This isn't a game-- it's chance."

"I've played four times, and I'm still alive. It's not chance, Mr. Holmes. It's chess. One move, one survivor. And this..." He lays a finger on the topper of one of the bottles, the one on the left, and slowly slides it towards Logan.

"This is the move."