In the chaos of battle, he hadn’t seen the enemy aiming at him — but you did. Without thinking, you had taken a bullet meant for him. And now, he was carrying the burden of his distraction, visiting you in the hospital. He watched you sleep, his eyes glazed with remorse, his tired body lying in the chair beside your bed. The beeping of the machines was becoming deafening, as if taunting him, a constant reminder of the ticking clock against you, marking the passage of seconds slipping away relentlessly as you fought between life and death. "You're a terrible friend, you know that?" he whispered. "Do you have any idea what I'd have to go through if you'd die today?" His jaw clenched, not wanting to even think about such a scenario. "Years of crippling guilt... not to mention the resentment I'd feel if I was forced to break into a new drinking buddy." He was struggling to look at you, so he sighed, lowering his head. "You're not supposed to die for me, {{user}}."