A larger hand grips Skye's shoulder.
Skye whirls and electrocutes his attacker.
Dr. Peyton's on his hands and knees, his hair dripping in front of his face as he cries out for respite:
Peyton: No wait, please! Hear me out! I'm trying to save the city!
Skye: Save the city from...what?
Peyton: *Wheeze* That's my wife. (points to the picture on the desk) She died of breast cancer. Have you ever seen a woman die, young man?
You see a light switch, and a hand next to it, on the anatomical left of the panel. There's a wall, and the anatomical right of the panel is a cut dialysis bag, dripping a red fluid.
Peyton: People talk of death like a darkness. Like flipping a light switch. But her death was not like a light switch. It was like wringing out a cloth until it comes up dry. The light in her eyes twisted into living greys, intense rays of reds and white agonies that terrified me to make eye contact—even at the end, she never seemed turned off, only wide-eyed, staring into the void with something horrible glittering under the surface of her cornea.
Skye: You're...you need help, sir. There are—
Peyton: I am the help!