Author's Note: I really liked writing this chapter. I'm not one for "action-y" stories like this, but whenever I can I really enjoy it. The problem is I'm not so good with it. Hopefully this all makes sense, it makes sense to me (but my brain works in weird ways).

Disclaimer: I, obviously, do not own Heroes. It was created by Tom Kring, the mind behind Crossing Jordan. It is owned (I assume) by him, and NBC Universal Television Studio. Word.

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Blinking rapidly, her eyes not moving from the location on the other side of the room, Simone could feel her heart beating faster. Her kitchen, which was in disarray as it was, now had a large dent in the far wall. She just knew the apartment manager would love that, but, there were bigger things on her mind. Did she throw it? No, she couldn't have, her hands were nowhere near the thing when it flew off. It couldn't have been a gust of wind: for one, her window was shut, and because her briefcase was sometimes even too heavy for her. But what could it have been?

She got to her feet and hurried over to the other side of the room, carefully avoiding the mess on the way. She licked up the briefcase and saw that it was in perfect condition (well, as perfect as it was before the incident), but the wall… the wall was bad. She let one hand off the briefcase and gently placed it on the wall. The dent in it was huge; she really didn't anticipate something like that happening, the way the complex was nearly in shambles. The wall was still standing; it just looked like something had carved into it and painted over.

The only other explanation was—"No. No, it couldn't be," she mumbled to herself, as if it would make her doubt it, but there was no other explanation, in her mind. "Stop it, you're going crazy," she scolded herself and stood up, the briefcase still in hand. She carefully dropped it on the table and hurried to her room. Maybe she was just seeing things.

Simone had a hard time sleeping that night. The rain had quickly turned into a nasty thunderstorm, and the sound of the hard drops falling against her window weren't exactly comforting. Then there was the constant thought of both Peter and Isaac going through her head, she really couldn't stand it. Whenever she did manage to fall asleep, she found herself awake again after a series of rolls, her clock said only a few minutes had passed.

It must have been nearly 3 in the morning—no, it was two, Simone thought, as she turned her head to her clock—when a loud crashing sound awoke her, yet again. This time, though, it caused her to jump, and her heart began to race, she was awake. It was too loud, too close to be thunder, it sounded like it was right inside of her house. Her heart pounding, she could have sworn she heard something again. Quietly, she got up from her bed. Despite being awake, she nearly toppled over, with her legs failing her. She managed to keep her balance and creep over to the door, which was firmly shut.

The light outside of her bedroom wasn't on, but she knew there was somebody out there. Her hand held against the knob of the door and opened it. It creaked about midway, causing her to just fling it open. If there was somebody in the house, she didn't want them to hear her. It was times like this she thanked her mother for making her grow up with slippers, as her pink-fluff covered feet scraped against the floor. From down the hall, she could see a dim light coming from the kitchen. She could also hear shuffling through something, a drawer, she assumed. There was definitely somebody in her house.

As quietly as possibly she stopped next to the kitchen. There was no door, it was open-faced, (another thing she was now thankful for), so she could see into the room, but her eyes weren't adjusted and she didn't think she could see anybody. She took a step further, into the tiled kitchen. There was a soft creak as she stepped on the tile. She held in a breath and the rummaging stopped.

She didn't exhale. Instead, she stepped off the tile. She was a loud footstep coming in her direction. Quietly and efficiently, she crouched down next to the door. A figure emerged, he was wearing a large robe, it looked like. She couldn't see the person's face, and Simone only hoped they couldn't see hers.

The man (she assumed it was a man, at this point, because his breathing sounded deeper than hers did) let out a quiet mumble. The head of the clock began moving, searching around the room for something. Her.

Simone then did something she never thought she would do. She didn't know if this man was armed or not, she didn't even know who this guy was, but she lunged forward from her crouching position, and grabbed his legs. He jumped, his feet left the ground, and it felt like he was trying to fight her off. She made an attempt to push him to the ground, but he was too heavy for her. He said nothing, only made quiet grumblings and whispers she couldn't quite make out, but he was fighting back, flailing his feet, but Simone had the advantage, until…

Everything inside her went numb. Her grip loosened, and she began moving away from the man. She tried to fight back, but nothing happened, she felt like she wasn't even in control of her own body. She found herself pinned against the wall. The man was looking at her, but from under his cloak she couldn't make out his face. She was looking directly at him, even though she was trying not to. The man, for the first time, did something other than whisper, he laughed.

The next few moments became a blur. Simone thought the man left the room, went back into the kitchen, but she was still being pinned up. What the hell was holding her? She gulped and tried to hold in a breath, but it felt like something punched her in the stomach and made her exhale. The man returned, she looked at him nervously. It was becoming harder to breath, her being pinned against the wall, and now—

In his hand was a knife. At first, Simone thought he was going to stab her. Her heart pounded louder, faster (as if it wasn't already), she gulped again and tried her hardest to break free of whatever it was holding on to her. Still nothing.

"D—don't…" was all she could manage, and as soon as she spoke she felt something behind grabbing on to her neck, gagging her. To her surprise, though, when he held up his hand he didn't "stab her" as she thought. He put it in her hand. She was confused, at first, still nervous, but she had no idea what was going on.

Then she realized. Her hand then moved back to the wall, the blade of the knife facing her head, her hand in line with her next. This guy—the man… he was controlling her. And he was going to get her to kill herself.