Stephen didn't know what he was doing, what he'd done.
He'd heard Cutter talking softly in his ear, and his brain had short-circuited, every neuron screaming at his mentor in protest.
Stephen had betrayed him, scorned him, slept with his bloody wife for Christs sakes, and when the need arose, Nick didn't hesitate to offer himself up as a sacrifice.
Screw that, if anyone was being a martyr, it was damn well going to be Stephen.
His fist slammed into his friends jaw, and Stephen couldn't stop the guilt that twinged inside of him.
The younger boy lunged for the door, throwing himself through the gap and slamming his hand down on the "lock" button, just in time to see Nick Cutter scramble to his feet and fling himself against the metal door separating himself from certain death.
Cutter was pleading, begging and shouting at Stephen to open the door, to stop being such a fool, but Stephen wasn't having any of it.
He'd made his bed, so he was damned well going to lie in it.
He had to admit though, he didn't particularly want to die, not like this anyway, not at 32 years of age.
Still, he supposed it was too late to back out now.
He was talking to Cutter, but it didn't seem that the Professor could hear him, whether because the glass was too thick, or the man had filtered out the world around him, Stephen wasn't sure, but he hoped it was the latter.
"Tell Abby and Connor, to stay out of trouble," His last attempt at humour fell short off his dry lips, and it came out sounding like more of a desperate plea than anything else.
It was enough however, to jolt Cutter back to the present, to make him lift his head and stare his assistant in the eyes as the mere boy walked backwards into the room, careful where he placed his feet.
Stephen ran his tongue over his lips gently, and smiled at Nick.
To his surprise, it wasn't a forced smile.
It was sad and desolate, and it burnt at his face, but it was a genuine smile.
He'd been a bastard, he'd be the first to admit it, and this was the only way he could redeem himself.
A martyr, a selfish greedy fool prepared to kill himself just to get the redemption he craved so deeply.
The very idea made him sick to his stomach, but he supposed he was stuck with that fate now.
His train of though consisted of one solitary mantra.
It wasn't a plea for survival, it wasn't a selfish remark about how he had saved them all, it was a simple request.
Don't let him see. Don't let him see. Don't let him see.
Stephen didn't want Cutter to watch him die, didn't want the man who'd suffered enough at his hands to feel a last twinge of horror at what Stephen had done to himself.
He didn't want to be the person who broke Nick Cutter.
His soul couldn't be burdened with that guilt.
As he met Cutter's wide frightened zaffre eyes with his own steely azure ones, he felt a rush of an emotion he didn't recognise.
Remorse, fear and maybe even a little bit of peace.
He was getting what he deserved.
He just had to keep telling himself that, and everything would be fine.
The Scottish mans shoulder tensed even behind the glass, and Stephen took that as a sign that the end was near.
He hoped for a death that was instantaneous, but he wasn't sure he'd be getting it.
Don't let him see. Don't let him see. Don't let him see.
The Future Predator lunged at him from behind, dagger-like claws shearing through the boys abdomen.
Stephen didn't have time to expel the rush of air in his lungs out in the form of a scream, didn't even have time for his eyes to widen in surprise before his legs dropped and the floor rushed to greet him in its cold concrete embrace.
Stephen James Hart was dead before his cheek touched the ground, his mouth twisted in an expression of pure grief, while a smile flickered unstarted at the edges, his glassy eyes, already filmed over, locked desperately on a circular section of glass that was completely enveloped by the face of a sobbing and shattered Professor Nick Cutter.
So much for not letting him see.