Back at the safehouse, the silence was heavier than the smoke. Peter’s body lay prostrate on the floor, engulfed in a ball of yellow flame. For a moment, the world thought debts were settled. Then... he stirred. As he picked himself up, the fire didn't burn him—it obeyed him. He seemed to absorb the flames, his charred flesh knitting itself back together like wet ink on a page. He dusted the soot from his tweed sleeve, walking to the balcony with the cold, measured step of a man who has all the time in the world. 'Disappointed. Mr. Felix this is going to cost you plenty.' Then in a sudden, violent flash of brimstone and ash, he was gone.

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