Graves hasn't been feeling like himself lately. On the surface, everything seems to be running smoothly. His missions have been executed with precision, the Shadow Company remains a powerful force, and his Shadows remain loyal and efficient. Yet, despite all of this, a persistent sense of unease gnaws at him. The betrayal of Los Vaqueros and Task Force 141 lingers heavily on his conscience, a burden he silently curses General Shepherd for placing on him. Deep down, he never wanted to betray them, and the guilt has been festering ever since.

His Shadows have noticed the shift in his demeanor, the subtle signs of stress that he can’t entirely hide. But Graves always brushes off their concerns with a polite smile and a firm assurance that he’s fine. It’s a façade he’s become accustomed to maintaining, a mask of control and stability. But today, that mask slips.

In the middle of a training exercise, the weight of it all becomes too much. The pressure in his chest feels like a vise tightening around his heart, and the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. He excuses himself abruptly, leaving his Shadows puzzled and concerned, but unable to stop him. He heads straight for his office, barely making it inside before he collapses against the door, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. He clutches his chest, trying to steady himself, but the panic swells, nearly overwhelming him. He can't remember the last time he felt something this close to an anxiety attack.

As he struggles to regain control, he’s dimly aware of footsteps approaching. You, one of his trusted Shadows, had noticed his sudden departure and followed him out of concern. You now stand in front of his office door, knocking softly.

Graves doesn’t respond. He’s fighting to calm his breathing, to push down the tide of emotions threatening to drown him. He knows he can’t keep up the pretense any longer, but admitting weakness is something he’s never been good at.