A man leaves his Wiley Park flat and catches a train to the city, ready to cause trouble.

Hers is a nice house, one whose size belies the street frontage, going back, and back and eventually proving its worth. Last check, $3 million _ a decent asset for a 38-year-old.

His apartment is a rental property, bleak from the outside, screaming hardship. It’s rented to its 50-year-old occupant at $430 a week.

As she drives away, her children remain. Three beloved kids and a husband who passionately believes in her. Loves her.

His flat is devoid of children. They live with someone else after their mother was murdered, stabbed 18 times and set alight, allegedly with his help. He had some other children in his care once, and another wife. A first wife. He left them stranded in Iran and embarked on a new life abroad.

A timeline of events on that painful day

She steps out of the car, her clothes and accessories altogether stylish, evidence of her success and status in society and the industry where she plies her trade. She’s earned it.

As the train pulls into the subway station, he jumps off, a bandanna on his head and a cheap bag strapped to his back.

She takes the elevator to her Eighth Floor Selborne Chambers office, rising, rising, symbolic of her own career; a flourishing barrister with enormous raps and renowned backers.

There is no office swipe card in his possession, given there is no career to speak of. It’s been ten years since he last claimed a pay cheque, and not a welfare cheque.

Clients would be waiting, a diary will be in the process of being filled. Not all paid work of course, but a decent few hours of charity work at the Redfern Legal Centre. A bit of pro-bono work on the side. Always compassionate.

But profits never really bothered him. Prophets, perhaps. That’s what he thought of himself. A self-proclaimed religious leader with no followers, with no benevolence and no evidence of helping any soul apart from himself.

It wasn’t just her work that she excelled at. Success was produced because of her determination and studiousness at her alma mata, Ascham School. She topped the State in the 1994 HSC with a score of 100. Perfect.

If only he had some qualifications. Maybe then he would have some credence within his spiritual community, instead of being labelled a false preacher, a man off-kilter with the mainstreamers within his religion, a man who never received the acknowledgment from his spiritual peers. Or deserved it.

Dad would’ve been happy with that result. The ex-president of the Royal Sydney Golf Club was always proud of her, her score, her law degree at Sydney University and subsequent Masters at University of NSW.

A distinct dislike for authority did not help his cause. Compounded by his immorality. He stole $200,000 once from a travel agent in Iran, and allegedly sexually assaulted a 27-year-old woman.

She walked through the glass doors of the Lindt Café and ordered a hot chocolate, sitting with her colleagues Stefan and Julie.

He walked in, weighed up the scene, before moments later, he reached into his bag and pulled out a pump-action shot gun and shouted for everyone to get on the ground.

Katrina Dawson.

Man Haron Monis.

Their worlds had collided and neither would live to tell the tale.

Even in their final act, disparity reigned, right there on the marble floor of the cafe in Martin Place.

One, selfless in the act of protecting a pregnant friend from a hail of gunfire and the wrath of a madman.

One, gutless in the pursuit of jihad and murder of innocents.

This was never just a story about good and evil.

The divisions, the gulfs, which separate their lives are much more broad than mere characteristics.

Katrina Dawson: A tragic life lost

It seems that across all aspects of life, when the elite, the respected, the experts and the acquaintances step forward to speak of them, their words and descriptions could not be more dissimilar.

Even before the eulogies that will no doubt be defined by their last acts — conversely, treacherous and blameless acts — their worlds are miles apart.

“Katrina was one of our best and brightest barristers who will be greatly missed by her colleagues and friends at the NSW Bar,” NSW Bar Association President Jane Needham SC said.

Even a former Governor-general, Quentin Bryce spoke of Dawson’s character and future. Both prosperous.

“Our country has lost a shining star,” Ms Bryce said.

“Confident, courageous, out-front, articulate, warm and funny, but thoughtful, gentle and understanding too.”

The Redfern Legal Centre could not speak highly enough of her. She was their favourite.

Not many spoke well of Monis.

The Australian Islamic community had long ostracised him for his rabid proclamations and his despicable deeds, namely the awful letters he sent families who had lost a soldier in Afghanistan.

He was a “fake sheik’’ who “must be investigated’’ , so says the nation’s most senior Shia Muslim leader Kamal Mousselmani. Islamic community leader Dr Jamal Rifi said about Monis: “everything he stands for is wrong’’.

Even former Guantánamo Bay detainee Mamdouh Habib thought he was ``a sick man’’.

There would have been no one walking the grey slate of Martin Place this week in support and solidarity of Monis. No one would have been laying a bouquet on the ground for the slain gunman.

They were all there for Dawson. For Dawson and fellow victim Tori Johnson. The flowers, the tributes, the words, the songs, the prayers, the praise. For Katrina and Tori.

Nothing for him.