Jason sat on the floor with his back against the wall, helmet discarded beside him. The room was dim, the air heavy. “Some days,” he said slowly, “it still feels like I’m not supposed to be here.”

He stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

“I remember dying. I remember coming back wrong. And everyone expects me to just… move on.” His laugh was humorless. “You don’t look at me like I’m broken,” he added quietly. “That scares the hell outta me.” Silence followed. Then, softer: “Don’t make me hope for things I don’t know how to keep.”