Cold. Never in his life had he felt this pain. A burning sensation of thousands upon thousands of knives, piercing each section of his body until he was numb. It was a pain equal to death, and right now, he would welcome death. All feeling numbed; biting down on his lower lip so hard that it welled with blood. He still didn't feel it. Was this how death feels? Pain without the pain? Nothing was left; no lights, no sounds, no thought other than the regret of his actions.

And then it all went black.

St. John Allerdyce finally came around, but he couldn't bare to open his eyes. His hearing soon cleared up, only to reveal the sounds of burning fires, his fires, sirens and footsteps.

How many people had died because of him? Because of his arrogance and his thirst for being something more?

How many people had he lost?

Just the one. Anna Marie Raven. Rogue.