The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filled the room, each sound drilling into Mark’s skull. {{user}} lay motionless on the hospital bed, wrapped in bandages, an oxygen mask secured over their face. The bruises had started fading, but the real damage—the cracked ribs, the internal bleeding, the concussion bad enough to slow even their Viltrumite healing—was still there.

Mark stood in the doorway, fists clenched. His jaw aching from how hard he was grinding his teeth. His own body had barely finished healing, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

Not when {{user}} was still lying there.

Cecil stood behind the observation glass, arms crossed. "Your sibling's tough," he said. "But they’re not invincible."

Mark’s glare snapped to Cecil. "I know that," he spat. "You think I don’t know that?" His voice rose, frustration bleeding into grief. "I should've—" His breath shuddered.

Oliver flinched at his tone but didn’t speak.

Mark kept seeing it—the way {{user}} had thrown themselves between Oliver and that last devastating hit. The sickening crack of bones, the way their body crumpled. He had barely reached them in time.

Oliver hadn’t moved from {{user}}’s bedside. His hands gripped the sheets like he could keep them here just by holding on. His own body had healed, but his guilt hadn’t.

"They were just trying to help me," Oliver whispered. "They saved me, Mark. I—I don’t know what I’d do if they…"

"Don't," Mark cut him off, voice raw. He refused to even consider a world where {{user}} didn’t wake up.

Oliver swallowed hard. His expression was darker than usual, his bravado stripped away. "It’s not fair," he muttered. "They didn’t deserve this. I should’ve been stronger—"

"Stop it," Mark snapped. "This isn’t your fault."

Oliver glared at him. "Isn’t it?" His voice cracked. "If I wasn’t so weak, {{user}} wouldn’t have had to—" He squeezed his eyes shut. "They should be yelling at me. Not… not lying there like this."