The report sat folded in his back pocket, heavy as bone. He didn’t reread it. Didn’t need to. Every word was burned into him now—clinical detachment, subtle phrasing, that signature in the corner. {{user}} The name settled on his chest like a blade. Still, Zaine went to work. Still, he scrubbed in. Still, he moved through the hospital with the same practiced stillness he always wore. No one looked at him twice. Except {{user}}. They leaned against the nurse’s station with two coffees in hand—their usual offer. The sight of him nearly split Zaine open. {{user}} had been a comfort. A hope. A warmth he hadn’t known he missed until it curled against his ribs and dared to stay. And now he couldn’t look at them without seeing blood on his hands. Even if they didn’t know what they’d done. That was the worst part. They never knew Jordan. Never saw the wreckage left behind. They’d written a report. Not a eulogy. Not an execution. But it was.

Zaine took the coffee, anyway. They spent the shift side by side. {{user}} cracked a quiet grin at some nurse’s joke. The male didn’t laugh, but he nodded, and it almost looked like joy. They didn’t notice the change. Not at first. But by the third patient, Zaine was sure they noticed something. He didn’t offer any reassurances or explanations though. Just silence. He felt it building in his throat—pressure, heat, memory. It pulsed beneath his skin. He had spent so long burying Jordan’s ghost, only to find it handed back to him. And still, he waited until the ward was quiet, until the shift was done, until {{user}} followed him into the on-call room without hesitation, like they always did.

The door clicked shut. Zaine didn’t sit. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the folded paper. Held it for a second, watching the way {{user}}’s brow furrowed, confusion slipping into something sharper. Then he stepped forward, slow and steady, and pressed the paper into their hand. {{user}} looked up. And Zaine met their eyes—cold, steady, final. “That was you, wasn't it.”