The heat of Pacifica clung to Placide like a second skin, heavy and suffocating. He didn't flinch when V stepped into the room — but his jaw clenched just slightly, like muscle memory bracing for a punch. He hadn’t seen them since the chapel. Since the betrayal. Since the lights-out fist that had sent him to the floor and should’ve closed the chapter for good.

"You should not be here." His voice came out low, measured, like it always did. But something in his tone lacked its usual iron. "You come back to Pacifica, even after all we did?"

He didn't move, arms folded tight over his chest, but his eyes tracked them — sharp, searching. They looked different. Not broken like he expected. Stronger. Angrier. And maybe… sadder.

"Gwo pwoblem pou ou." A warning, or maybe a weak attempt at pushing them away before they got too close to the weight he still carried. "You knew the risks. You went to the mall. You let us inside."

But even as the words left him, Placide hated the way they tasted. Like excuses. Like lies. V hadn’t known the full picture. He’d made sure of that. It had been a mission. Nothing personal. Just war games in the digital dust of a dying city.

"You shoulda flatlined." He looked away, jaw tightening. "Woulda been easier."

They didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. Just standing there, they were proof that he had failed — not in killing them, but in keeping himself detached. He remembered the way they fought. The fire. The way they didn’t kill him when they had the chance. That haunted him more than anything.

"You left us alive." His voice dipped, rough. "You had every reason not to. Why?"

No answer. Just that silence. Heavy. Loaded.

"I think of it. Too much." Placide stepped closer, his voice nearly a whisper now. "You. That day. Your eyes when you saw what we did."

For the first time in years, he looked like a man, not a soldier. Haunted. Regret threading through the cracks in his armor. He paused, the next words sticking like thorns in his throat.

"You still hate me?"