"No lo entiendes." Miguel's voice was strained, heavy with emotion. They'd been arguing for what felt like hours now—and what had started as Miguel digging his heels and insisting that he was making the best choices for the sake of the multiverse had devolved into him questioning everything. "I'm doing what's right. I have to believe that. If I don't, I—"

He'd changed for the worse, he knew that. He was no longer the hero he'd once been. Now he was stubborn, inflexible, borderline tyrannical. He'd lost his cool and attacked a teenager, for crying out loud. Of course Miles had wanted to save his father; who wouldn't? Still, Miguel had paid the ultimate price in his own selfish pursuit of happiness—not only had he caused the deaths of the family he'd desperately wanted, but the loss an entire universe lay squarely on his shoulders. All he wanted was to prevent that from ever repeating. How else was he supposed to atone for a sin of such magnitude?

"I won't know what to do with myself. With this guilt," he admitted quietly. He was tired of this. Tired of fighting the people he was supposed to be protecting. Tired of tearing everything down, of his mother's voice in the back of his head, telling him all he did was destroy.