Illya Kuryakin was dieing. He had followed a THRUSH agent though the streets of a small midwestern town where he and Napoleon had been investigating THRUSH activity. Ducking into the local cemetery he momentarily lost sight of his quarry and then felt himself smash into a headstone as bullets from the THRUSH agents gun tore into his chest and side. He had lost consciousness and when he finally woke it was dark.

He lay supine in the grass, gasping in pain. He could feel his blood seeping out onto his arm, and chest. He was cold and knew he was going to black out once again. He stared up at the stars and wondered if this was going to be his last night. He didn't pray having long ago given up on that. He wished he could see Napoleon at least once more to tell him he was sorry. "I don't want to leave you my friend, who will watch your back" he whispered. He could no longer feel his feet or arms. He could hear footsteps approaching and tried to muster enough energy to feel alarmed, to feel anything. He couldn't. His view of the sky was blocked by someone bending over him.

"Napoleon?" He gasped, unsure who was there, just a small sliver of hope as his world faded to darkness.