That's who he is. It has to be. Someone is helping him.

Carlisle gasps with the weight of it more so than getting his legs kicked out by the cloaked figure, hood back against shoulders to hair that would probably be orange-red in the sunlight.

There's no time.

Carlisle pauses and rights himself, smiling to a man who isn't even looking at him when he thinks Goodbye, Gerard before he runs.

Away from the guard.