He'd been stabbed. Right? Right. Martin had held him... they'd embraced. 'Where you go I go, that's the deal.' And now... it was dark?

He'd felt the rush. The pull as he was severed from his world. They'd cut the tether, sent the Fears away. He still felt the prickling of the Eye, ever watchful, in the back of his mind. But it all felt... different now.

Groaning, as he sat up. He felt around for Martin, only to find that he was alone in the small cleaners cupboard. A sharp intake of pain... the stab wound was still sore, the flesh tight as it started to heal. He stretched, standing shakily as he got his bearings. He almost recognised the small closet. Huh. But the thought passed fleetingly.

His hands fumbled for the handle, as the other pushed the long dark hair out of his face. Christ he needed a haircut. The door creaked open, and the closet was flooded with light. Those darkwood floors... the stacks of paper... the offices.

He was back in the institute.

It seemed cleaner to how he remembered it, and he almost choked back a cry as he spotted Sasha and Tim chatting away behind the glass of the break room. So they were alive... must still be early days then.

Taking a few steps forward, he reached his office. Peering through the window, he could see himself. God, he was uptight back then. Short hair, brown skin still unburdened by scars. And, admittedly, an arsehole. He knocked, and took a step into the office.

"Where-"

The words died on his throat, as he spotted the assistant stood by Jon's desk, a pile of statements in their hands. That... didn't make sense. He didn't know them. He knew Martin, Tim and Sasha. Not them. All pairs of eyes were on him, the unknowns face twisting from fear to confusion to realisation.

"I... Why are you in my office?"