He woke up on the floor again. He was in his office, or what used to be his office back before he'd walked away from Nelson and Murdock. Only it felt wrong now. He was wrong now.

He got to his feet and wiped the dust off himself, musing on their inability to ever keep the place clean, and looked up only to see that the back wall was missing a window. Hadn't it had one? He tried to remember, but found that he couldn't. He looked around, panicked, wondering if this was even his office at all. In place of the window was a bulletin board. It took up the whole wall. At the top, two playing cards were pinned. Foggy moved closer to examine them, and realized what they were. One, a Jack, had his eyes blacked out. The man in black, Foggy remembered. The other was a King, the Kingpin. Wilson Fisk. His heart beat faster at that thought, and as he moved backwards away from the wall he could swear he heard grunts and the thump of a foot kicking the floor behind him. Someone was choking. Was it him? He had to put his hand to his throat to check before he could take another breath.

"He did that for me, you know," a calm, steady voice said behind him and he turned around, surprised to see Fisk's weasel of an assistant sitting at a conference table in the corner looking just as smug as Foggy remembered him. What was he doing there?

What were either of them doing there? It took Foggy a moment for his own thought to catch up with him. There was a sorcerer. Right. He was here because he wasn't dead, and this world was only supposed to be populated with the ghosts of people Foggy felt responsible for.

"You're nobody to me," Foggy told him. "I don't feel responsible for what happened to you." He waited for the moment when the man whose name he couldn't remember turned to dust and was blown out the non-existent window that was supposed to be there.

"You never asked questions," Fisk's assistant told him. "You never wanted to. You were scared of what the answers might be."

"What are you talking about?" Foggy asked. In front of him, blood began seeping through the ghost's clean white dress shirt. So much blood, from so many places. Was that how it happened? Foggy had only ever been told that he'd been shot. He'd assumed it was a professional hit. That it had been quick and relatively painless.

"I imagine that Fisk told him that it was because of the visit to his mother," the man said, standing up. Wesley, Foggy finally remembered. That was his name. "But I know what I meant to him. What he would do to anyone who he thought hurt me."

The horrible choking noises filled the room again.

"Ben killed you?" Foggy asked. "That's..." He struggled to even fathom it. "It's impossible. He couldn't do that."

"No," Wesley said. "He didn't know me. You, though? You took my case, didn't you. Nelson and Murdock?"

"I didn't..." Foggy started to say before his mind went to that place he always hated it going. "Matt... What did he do? Wait... why am I listening to you? This is my world, I created it, and you're a liar anyway."

"You let me into your office and cashed my check," Wesley told him. He crept closer to Foggy, pushing Foggy backwards until he backed into something only to realize what it was and screamed, immediately stepping away again. John Healy. Or, at least, the body of John Healy. If Foggy hadn't heard a description of how the man had died, he would never have recognized him bent over unnaturally with a spike cleanly jammed between his eye socket and the back of his head.

"Oh God," Foggy said. "oh God, oh God", and now he was sobbing, terror-stricken at the sight of it.

"Do you really think God wants anything to do with you, Mr. Nelson?" Wesley asked him. "Look around."

Foggy didn't want to listen, didn't want to be forced to see. He closed his eyes tightly trying to avoid it, but he knew it wouldn't make them go away. When he opened them again, they were all there in the room with him. Healy, but also Officer Blake and Leland Owlsley, and a man Foggy didn't recognize but who he knew had been killed by the force of a bowling ball crushing in his skull. Collateral damage, all of them, of a war Foggy hadn't even known was going on in the shadows and back alleys of the place he'd once told Karen was nothing to be afraid of. And that sound, that sickening groaning and gagging, still filled the air.

"I didn't kill them!" Foggy screamed at him. "Or you. I cashed a check. That does not make me responsible."

"No, it doesn't," Wesley said. "But encouraging and protecting the person who is does."

"Matt didn't..." Foggy tried to say, but something stopped him. "He couldn't..." But he knew he didn't believe what he was about to say. He'd never asked Matt about any of them, not directly, but he'd had his suspicions once he'd learned about the man in black, about Matt's crusade. Had wondered about Matt's level of involvement in all of it.

Before he could stammer out anything else, he heard a series of loud cracks, gunshots, and before he had a chance to duck he felt the bullets slam into him. Time seemed to slow, and each one felt familiar. He counted them. There were seven of them. He looked up to find that they had passed through Wesley and into him. He clutched himself and watched the gushing blood seep out over his fingers. When he looked up again, his jaw dropped as he recognized the dainty freckled hands of Karen Page holding the gun, followed her arms up to see her staring at him with a steely look in her eyes. She said nothing, and Foggy could only gasp as his consciousness faded to black, the last thing he saw the stream of dust as Wesley was carried away.