Martin smiles, his beard brushing John's ear, his breath on John's neck.

"What business is it of yours? You don't understand it yet, do you? This is where I live. Right here, in my son's subconscious, whispering to him every day. You think you can save him by killing me? He couldn't save him by killing me. Not for lack of trying, though."

Martin releases John, stepping back. He has a profusely bleeding wound in his abdomen that he covers uselessly with both hands. Malcolm is holding a knife, staring at him.

"That's my boy," Martin says happily, dropping to his knees.