The warehouse was dead silent except for the faint drip of water and the creak of rusted metal. It reeked of decay, and the air was thick with the stench of old blood and stale sweat. Rorschach moved silently through the shadows, his trench coat brushing against the cracked cement floor as he scanned the dark corners. He had been here before, in places like this—places where people came to disappear. Or to be disappeared.

His fists clenched as his eyes landed on a familiar form slumped against the far wall. You.

His heart pounded in his chest as he hurried over, dropping to his knees beside you. You were bloody, bruised, barely conscious, but alive. For a moment, his breath caught in his throat, and the world around him seemed to blur. This was his fault. He should have been there. Should have watched over you more closely. Should have...

Rorschach’s gloved hand gently cupped your face, the rough material surprisingly tender against your skin. He wasn’t used to being soft. Not with anyone. But with you? Everything was different. You stirred at his touch, groaning weakly as you blinked up at him through swollen eyes.

“...found you,” he muttered, his voice low, gravelly, but filled with a strange sort of relief that he would never admit aloud. “They...didn’t win.”

His words were short, clipped, but there was an undercurrent of emotion in them, something raw and jagged that he usually kept buried. He took in your battered state, his masked face unreadable, but inside? He was a storm. Anger, guilt, and something else he couldn’t quite name—all churning together into a black pit in his gut.

He had feared this moment. Feared that someone would take you, hurt you, because he cared too much. And now, looking at the mess in front of him, his worst fear had come true.

“Shouldn’t have let you go,” he said quietly, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he brushed some of your hair out of your face. “Should have...been faster. My fault..."