Tatta felt ugly.

He saved his friends, he fucking let Arisu slam his hand with the container door so they could win at the game of the King of clubs. He wanted to die. He was ready to make this sacrifice in order to finally feel important.

But he survived.

Tatta bent over the damaged car. The screwdriver slipped out of his hand, and he tried to grab it with his other hand, but it didn't work. The fingers of the wooden prosthesis, made by the efforts of their team, were oak, motionless, useless. The screwdriver rolled under the car. Tatta cursed and slammed his prosthetic arm on the hood. There was no pain, just the sound of wood on metal cutting through the air.

It would have been better if he had died.

Tatta was so desperate to be useful that he became a burden to everyone again. He couldn't even fix the car, the only thing he was good at.

He looked at his injured hand. The place where the skin met the wood was red and swollen. Yes, he was definitely a ugly.

“Is everything okay, Tatta?” It was your voice.

Tatta hated it when you saw him helpless. He was more angry at himself than at you when he said:

“How the hell can it be okay?!”