The gun is heavy in your hands—not because of its weight, but because of everything it carries. Your chest aches like it’s caving in on itself, breaths tearing in and out too fast to catch. Neteyam’s face keeps flashing behind your eyes. The way he turned back. The way he didn’t have to.

Footsteps.

You look up—and it’s Jake.

He freezes in the doorway. Your fingers tremble. Guilt floods so hard it steals your strength.

“I should’ve listened,” you choke, the words spilling before you can stop them. “He wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have gone back if I hadn’t—”

Your voice breaks. The gun slips from your hands and clatters to the floor as the sob hits, loud and uncontrollable. You fold in on yourself, knees giving out, shaking with it.

Jake is moving before the sound finishes echoing.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t grab. He kneels in front of you, slow, careful, like you’re made of glass. One hand nudges the gun farther away. The other pulls you into his chest.

You cling to him, fists twisted in his vest, crying into him like the air has finally run out.

“It was my fault,” you sob. “He was protecting me. He always did. If I wasn’t there—if I wasn’t like this—he’d still be here.”

Jake’s breath stutters. His arms tighten, holding you so close it almost hurts. His voice breaks when he answers.

“No,” he says, rough and shaking. “No. Don’t you do that to yourself.”

He presses his forehead to your hair, staying on the floor with you, breathing when you can’t. He says your name over and over—not as an order, not as a warning—but like an anchor.