John finally turned. Tears streaked his dirt-smeared face. “I know.”

Quentin stood beside him, uncharacteristically silent.

Days later, Beast carved John Proudheart’s name into the Quiet Wall with his own claws.

“You don’t remember me,” the clone said. “We were in the Academy together. You called me ‘Wallpaper Telepath.’”

Before Quentin could deploy his diamond shroud, the clone detonated his own skull. The psychic feedback didn’t kill Quentin—but it scrambled his memories for 4.7 seconds. Long enough for another John to step from the shadows and plant a kiss on his forehead.

“John Proudheart’s backup remains active in one location: Quentin Quire’s dreamscape. Not a threat. A guest.”

“So stop,” Domino said. “We’ll give you a real grave. A monument. Your name on the Quiet Wall. No more copies. No more ghosts.”

“Tell the Cuckoos… I’m sorry I couldn’t be their friend. Only their wound.”