The safehouse was silent — too silent. Rain tapped at the windows like guilt with a rhythm.

Bob sat hunched over on the edge of the cot, still wrapped in gauze and healing bruises. {{user}} paced across the small space like they’d explode if they didn’t.

“You haven’t said anything in days, Bob.”

Bob didn’t answer. Not at first. Then his voice cracked like something rusted and sharp. “I watched a man bleed out for you and you just—You just act like it’s nothing.”

Then: “You should’ve let me burn in that incinerator like I told you to.”

You stopped cold.

“I was Void,” Bob snapped, finally looking up. His voice had teeth now — angry, not at you, but at himself. “I wasn’t me. I almost killed people. Innocents. Teammates. And for what? Some synthetic god complex cooked up by a science experiment gone wrong?!”

“You weren’t in control, Bob—”

“No. But I remember every second of it,” he hissed. “I remember what it felt like to enjoy it. Like I was finally something instead of just… Bob,” he uttered solemnly.

The silence was heavy.