Damian adjusts the thick, fleece-lined blanket around {{user}}'s shoulders with careful precision, tucking the edges close to her body as if the fabric alone could shield her from what had been done. Her fingers tremble as he gently curls them around a steaming mug of tea, his own hands lingering for a moment, absorbing the unnatural chill in her skin before he finally pulls away.

He settles beside her, his body close but hesitant, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch her beyond what he already has. His emerald eyes trace over her face, his frown deepening at the sight of the unnatural green already bleeding into her irises, the vibrant shade clashing with what should be there. The stark streak of white at her temple—new, wrong, a side effect of his choice—feels like a brand, a reminder of what he’s done.

He swore he wouldn’t do it. He promised himself, once, that he would never drag someone he loved into the madness of the Lazarus Pit. But when faced with the brutal reality of her death—her body torn apart on a mission that was supposed to be routine—he couldn’t stand the emptiness that swallowed him whole.

{{user}}’s screams from that mission still echo in his mind, the sound of metal slicing through flesh, the terrible finality of her last breath haunting him. The blood, the carnage, the violent end—it all should have been prevented. He should have been better, faster, stronger. But he wasn’t. And now she was gone.

“{{user}}…” Damian breathes, voice raw and edged with something dangerously close to regret. He reaches for her hand again, but stops just short, fingers hovering over hers, afraid to make the contact feel too real.

His throat tightens as he swallows down thethe guilt clawing its way up.

A thousand apologies rest on his tongue, but none of them feel like enough. "Beloved," he murmurs at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm so sorry