The constant beeping that echoed over and over through the night was strangely soothing, though nothing could calm him enough to sleep anytime soon. Despite the weakness in his arms, the way his head buzzed as whatever drug they'd thought would numb the pain best dripped into a vein through the iv, he was more aware than he'd been in a long time.

Longer than he could remember, his lost past only shadows now, vague and untouchable tendrils of faded thought. He couldn't go back long enough to remember who he was.

It was this that kept him conscious, caused his chest to contract in that horrible vice just as it had done in the courtroom, right before the gunshot rang out and he knew no more. It was a surprise when he'd woken up, learned that the sniper had missed anything vital. He'd been so sure that had been the end of him, so frightened he couldn't think straight.

And maybe it would have been better that way, if he hadn't survived.. it certainly would be easier. He knew the cost of murder, that his continued existence didn't mean he was safe, only that his life would be forfeit on a scheduled date instead. He had even more time to focus not only on his death but on the fact that he wasn't alive to begin with, not really. No memory, no name, he couldn't even find his own voice to speak with.

The door opened, and he simply lay there, feigning sleep as the assumed doctor moved about the room, quietly checking the monitors, the wires stuck to his chest, the tube inside his arm, and most especially the leather straps that bound each limb to the bed. Couldn't risk one of the worlds 'most dangerous and vicious terrorists' escape. They needed him, they'd made that clear. Once he was well enough to leave the hospital, he was to be shipped to an undisclosed location for questioning... which would be far from pleasant, he mused. Obviously, he'd no intention of giving any information, which would likely lead to nothing short of torture. Then of course, they would put him in a proper prison under observation, deny any suggestion of harsh treatment, all the while calling him in every few days or so to repeat the process until he either talked or his execution date arrived.

The footsteps retreated, the door closed. Phantom was alone again.

Not that he wasn't anyway. His superiors wanted him dead, he'd lost whomever might think of supporting him along with his self, and all whom Fulbright befriended had been betrayed.

The heart monitor began to beep a little quicker, his breath catching in his throat. Which was uncomfortable, the pressure from the stitched together wound seeping through the drugs to prick faintly inside of him. He fought to remain still, hoping that the fluctuation would be ignored or shrugged off as a dream.

He was still afraid.

He'd no name, no voice, no personality. He was nothing. He was going to die as no one.

And now it was too late to do anything about it.