Peter came home one night and Wade wasn't there, not even a single trace of him could be detected; but as soon as he heard that familiar gunshot, as soon as he made his way to the rooftop of their apartment and found Wade trembling and heaving in a pool of his own blood, clutching that gun like it was the last remnant of a broken dream, he knew, just knew, that those . . . those urges that haunted Wade time and time again had begun their assault on his fragile sense of purpose once more.