If it's any consolation there's no wound for Kyle to find. No blood and viscera of Quentin's chest now exposed by whatever made up that glowing blade.

Nevertheless Quentin's breath is absent until the weight of Kyle's palms driving into his chest knock the wind out of him and some sense of reality back into him.

He comes around with a cough and a wheeze and a reflexive pawing at his chest as if he too expected a hole to be there.

"Fuck!" he gasps. "Did it work? Did I kill him?"