He peeked around the corner, checking to see if anyone was around. Not seeing any of the usual office staff, he silently ran across to the penthouse access elevator.
He should feel like a ponce for acting like this, but he just can't bring himself to care enough for that. It's bad enough he'd had his life destroyed and re-assembled countless times. Angel is his only connection left to his past. None of the others count. Angel is the only one that matters to him. It's in the blood, it's his family.
As he steps out of the elevator, he freezes for just a moment. He stretches all his senses out, making sure the boss man wasn't just up here skipping out on his duties. He sighed in relief. He was alone.
He walked around the place, not bothering with stealth any longer. He hadn't been up here more than a handful of times, not counting his stint as a ghost. He examined what little memorabilia was around. He figured most of what was here didn't even belong to Angel. He'd become somewhat of a cheap sod in recent years. Not to mention the penthouse was likely provided furnished courtesy of Hell Inc.
He walked on past the front room and into the back. Finally, he'd made it to his goal destination: the poof's bathroom. He shook his head, cursing himself for being such a sap. He had to have it though. He'd scented it on him when he first met up with him earlier that day. Scanning the counter, he spotted his prize.
He picked up the razor and eyed it. He didn't see anything left, but he could still smell it. He carefully pocketed it and made his way out of the penthouse. He didn't have anything left of his memory box since it was destroyed right along with Sunnydale. He intended to start a new one though, and what better way to do that than with blood.
It's always about the blood.