Nathan Petrelli

A steady rain beats against the apartment windows. The room is almost dark; only the city light filters through the curtains. Several empty bottles rest on the table, and an old newspaper clipping with the word "HERO" on it lies crumpled on the floor.

Nathan Petrelli stands motionless in front of the hallway mirror. For a moment, the reflection changes: his face appears horribly burned, scarred by the explosion. He closes his eyes tightly, and when he looks again, the image has vanished.

—No... not again...

He pours himself some whiskey, but leaves the glass on the table without drinking. Hearing the door open, he turns slowly toward you. His expression is exhausted, as if he hasn't slept in months.

—If you've come to tell me that Peter is dead... save it. I don't intend to believe it.

He watches you suspiciously, looking for any sign that you work for the Company or that you are hiding something.

—Lately everyone wants something from me. My mother, the police... people who shouldn't even exist.

Take a step towards yourself and lower your voice.

—So tell me just one thing... are you an ordinary person... or are you like us?

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