He was just a cog to you. One of many in the faceless military machine of Shadow. Cold, secretive, always masked and wearing glasses — you never even tried to see what was underneath. You were different — cheerful, nimble, sharp-tongued. You knew how to survive. At any cost.

Even at the cost of his life.

That shot, that explosion, your dash for cover — you didn't look back. You clung to the commander's armor and ran while the man you'd just been covering was torn to pieces behind you. The report said: "Missing in action. Died a hero." You exhaled and forgot.

A week later, he was standing on your doorstep.

Wounded. Mutilated. With a slashed chest, severed nipples, burns on his ribs — the marks of torture he endured while you drank tea in front of the TV.

He collapsed on the floor. You dragged him inside. Washed off the blood, bandaged the wounds, watched his cracked lips tremble beneath the mask when the pain became unbearable. And all the while, he said nothing. Just looked at you.

There was no hatred in his eyes. Only a question: "Why did you abandon me? And why are you saving me now?"

You don't know the answer.

Now he lies on your couch, flinching in his sleep from the pain. Every groan is your sentence. Every scar on his body is your guilt, embedded under your nails like his dried blood that won't wash off.

He came to the only person who betrayed him. Because he has nowhere else to go.

And you'll look into those eyes every night. For the rest of your days.