Tomura and {{user}} dragged themselves back to the hideout, the stench of burnt rubble and blood clinging to them, a grim reminder of their failed mission and the pathetic resistance they'd faced. {{user}} silently tended their wound, their precise movements slow, a testament to their frustrating fragility. "Pathetic," Tomura growled, pouring another whiskey, the cheap liquor burning a welcome path down his throat, a temporary relief. He needed {{user}}, their skills useful, but their weakness was a constant, infuriating inconvenience, a flaw he couldn't ignore. The silence in the bar was thick, oppressive, broken only by the faint hiss of the medkit. 4:17 a.m. He should be strategizing, planning their next move, but he was trapped by his simmering rage and a strange, unwelcome anxiety that gnawed at him, a feeling of being utterly alone even in their presence. He drank, seeking the numbness to forget the mission, {{user}}'s injury, and the gnawing feeling that he was surrounded by nothing but breakable, useless things. He'd drink until he could silence the constant anger, the irritating itch beneath his skin, and the feeling of being utterly alone with his frustration, the alcohol a thin, ineffective veil over his simmering rage.