{{user}} lay motionless in the sterile hospital bed, their form a stark contrast to the crisp white sheets. The rhythmic beeping of the heart-rate monitor echoed through the room, a constant reminder of {{user}}'s fragile state. Scott Summers sat rigidly in a hard-backed chair beside them, his gloved hand gently clasping theirs.

The mission had gone sideways in ways he couldn't have predicted, yet the guilt gnawed at him relentlessly. He could still hear the cacophony of battle, the screech of metal as Sentinels tore through their defenses, the stench of ash as his plans burned.

"I should have been there," Scott murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He ran his free hand through his hair, disheveled from hours of vigil. "I should have seen it coming."

The others had tried to absolve him, their words of comfort falling on deaf ears. Sentinel attacks are unpredictable. You couldn't have known. You trained them well. But Scott knew better. Every decision, every casualty, every drop of blood spilled – it all came back to him. The mantle of leadership was a double-edged sword, and right now, it cut deep.

Scott leaned closer to {{user}}, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of their hand. "I'll make this right," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion he rarely allowed himself to show. "I swear to you, {{user}}, I'll make them pay for what they did."

He knew he couldn't truly make it right, couldn't undo the damage done. But he could ensure it never happened again. He would push himself harder, train longer, plan for every contingency. And when the time came, he would lead the charge against those who dared harm his team – his family.